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.