Sheep

The Quiet Wool

On the mist‑kissed moor the sheep do preen,
Their coats a soft, bewildering sheen.
Golden stalks bend beneath the shade,
While the shepherd’s whistle makes a sonnet‑glade.

The lambs parade like clinging poems,
Past rust‑bark trees where summer homes.
Ewe whispers, a low rumour,
Their lives in rhythms, bright and pure‑our.

Beneath the wide, unhurried sky,
They ruminate—no urban pry.
Their quiet play, a pastoral spell,
In turf and dreams, they quietly dwell.