To my surprise, a sheep’s eye
Is not round. The pupil is quite triangular,
So when it looks at me
What does a ewe see?
I must look like a pyramid
Or a wandering wedge.
My cousin, its master, the farmer,
Must look like a chisel edge
Coming to chip it out of its Cubist flock.
A New Deer ewe’s a woolly, walking block
With triangular eyes…
A fleece of crumbly chalk
Amongst acres of permed sheep,
A field of woolly leapers,
A grizzled matriarch stamps,
Stands her ground like a tug at anchor.
Her flanks, butted by lambs,
Her back, mounted by rams.
Her eyes click off and on
Like two car side lights;
Her woolly heart is fluttering like a fan
At this new smell on legs so near her young.
Her lamb leaps two feet happy.
New Deer, a melting moment in March,
Spring on four legs has sprung.