Minding Sheep

Hard graft, harder than I’d ever known, and long hours.
Often five till midnight. And the never-ending rain;
and the cold, carving claws from my fingers; and
mud and sheep shit: sticky, green-brown, everywhere.

But out on the hillside, watching the lambs hammering
at their mothers, seeing myself reflected in their alien eyes,
counting out the day to their ageless grind, grind, grind,

out on the hillside, when the sun wraps her arms around
my shoulders, and the grass makes a bedspread, and the wind,
sometimes whispering, sometimes shouting, strokes my hair,
life could be worse than minding other people’s business.