It’s Early Spring. The sheep will have their young.
The flock then fills with lambs a few weeks old,
Anonymous dots until each mother’s call
Brings each lamb back to get its feeding done.

The ewes call out, and by each mother’s sound,
Repeated like an echo round the field,
They and the lambs, wherever is the need,
Each by their own are by that calling found.

If you keep sheep and mean to do it well,
You’ll try to sell the lambs for Easter night
And get your price and give the flock its blend.

The ewes remaining in the flock don’t know
Their lambs are gone and keep on calling out
For three full days; and then the calling ends.


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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 22 Number 7, on page 39
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