The Ghosts Of Sheep (Poetry)

Grey against the pure-bred, flawless white;
worried by the dogtooth wind’s sharp bite,
the scattered sheep stand motionless and show
a long-faced resignation to the snow.

Their ragged fleeces clogged with frozen sleet;
the bitter silence broken by a bleat
communicating, begging a reply
from twisted trees and dark, cloud-heavy sky.

Fields groan with winter’s weight — their acres cold;
abandoned farms mourn ruined walls and folds
where phantom flocks wait patiently and gnaw
ice-brittle blades of grass until the thaw.

An island’s haunted mass of rock and turf
where blizzards rule the steep and time-locked earth
and hold it in a wild, subzero thrall
as shadows move and long-dead shepherds call.