In Spring, their cream-thick bleating
with lamb's breath.
Summer, and their coats are matted with mother love.
From a distance
they are white paint-strokes
on green canvas.
Autumn sees their fleeces shed by shears.
Flesh coloured they re-emerge.
A herd of surprised aliens.
Winter, they are
large balls of wool and grit. Their saliva
drips on frozen grass. Steam
feeds the dank December air.
If you have any thoughts about this poem, Andrea Bowd would
be pleased to hear them