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After the Shearingshe looks frail and undefended
older, barrel-bodied, stick-legged,
her lambs, half grown, rush her,
butt her belly, latch on, tug
dry teats, tails scribble empty air.
Pale as peeled wood, she stands
wide-legged, facing the wind, sunlight
haloes her shorn head, ears upright as blades.
She stares ahead, staggers as they root,
waits till they unlatch, then moves
downhill, stoops, crops the grass.
They run uphill and vanish out of sight.
An easy letting go, no teenage angst
parental confrontations, tears.
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