Categories
poetry

Lamb

Picture of sheep in transportation

Something strange, of the night
about the eyes, as staring back,
between the slats, from lorry’s side,

Huddled, woolly, while I,
driving slowly to a stop
by the light, waiting, watching,
for colour to change;

Green to red, just for them,
my nearby flock, do they suspect
from pastures lush, to butchers hook?

Or am I just a blur
ahead of the roller coast?
The winding of country lanes
before grinds, slowing,

Clatter down, wooden gate,
then a calming little nibble,
humane, like a bolt from the blue.

By cyncoed

Old & Welsh

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