Bleat

In the hush of a first‑light pasture,
the old‑timed bleat flutters over sheaf‑filled loam –
a lilting knock‑out of a lamb’s thin plea,
singing the county’s taste of crook’d green.

It echoes from the hill like a mute foot‑stomp,
a quick, bright note that shepherds hear in their eyes:
“Here is the flock, fair enough for tea,
and if you listen, you’ll hear what the breeze translates.

Bleat, that simple sigh, carries all the country’s pride;
the quiet drum that beats under the lime‑stone sky.
The farmers sigh, the children trade their swipes
for a memory of skin and breath and woolly coincidence.

So I linger on the green, taking a sip of clotted cream,
and let the bleat remind me of the quiet, unsewn cheese,
of a world where every voice, no matter how small,
has its own colour on the map of the day.