Photo: By JKalina on Unsplash.
Poem: Lambing
'It’s always cold for lambing, every year...'
It’s always cold for lambing, every year,
before a glimmer of Spring is even thought of,
but this seems worse than ever.
You can almost see the wind
scouring the sky. That moon doesn’t vary,
and old Orion’s seen it all over and over…
Just one of him, dozens of us
through the years, blowing on our hands
for warmth, just the same
as they did in history.
Some things don’t change
though it’s a changing time.
Good for those that want it,
youngsters making for the towns;
I like the loneliness here in the fields,
watching with the ewes, waiting for the first drop,
flexing my frozen fingers ready to ease
and hold, guide bleating mouth to teat.
But shivering tonight.
I need a drink to warm me through,
Can’t leave them though.
That star grows very bright –
It’s like a blinding migraine in the sky,
Striking pain to the eye.
I have no cure for this,
feels like an endless throbbing in my head.
And now I hear the first new-born lamb cry.
