“Where are you?”
Random bleats float out across the hills.
At the first hint of danger small hooves come running.
Bucking in the middle of a charge
Just for the pleasure of jumping,
Back to his mother’s side.
He has milk and grass and sunshine,
While she is there
Nothing can go wrong.
She lifts her head swiftly,
Moves closer, watches his every move.
A ragged heap of dirty wool
On spindle legs.
She will protect him for as long as she can,
Averting danger with a stamp of a knobbly knee
And the glare of a beady eye.
An eye that has seen bad things happen.
She knows that there will come a day,
A terrible day,
When she will hear her little one shout in fear
And she will not be able to go to him,
A day when she will call for him
And he will not come.