Three Ewes On The Edge (Poetry)

The trio crowd in close
stand tense under uniform grey fleeces, staring
out across the valley’s tidy sweep
of squared and gaping fields.

Viewed from above, the densely clumped trees
show only their best skywards profiles — bulging
cloudlike — and what the sheep
seem focused on is out of sight —
down below the wall.
A fallen lamb that bleats its clumsiness, perhaps —
cries at its vague misfortune.

The first ewe balances her forelegs, unsteady
on the loose dry stone —
whatever draws her, lets her risk
her moorland life of scrubby grass
is enough to make her press against
thin air — she leans into the void
where the hillside drops abruptly into space.

Her companions are not so bold —
they wait, hold half a shoulder back —
concerned and frankly curious
they stay with her, ’though hesitant —
listening to a small but nagging voice
reminding them of what they lack —
the confident agility of goats.