Shorn
Thursday 18 May 2023
poetry
Shorn
In the hush of early morning,
A ewe stands bare, her wool withdrawn,
The pale sun glints on fleece‑less back,
As though the heavens had been sheared.
We, too, are shorn — of laughter, of dreams,
Stripped down to bone‑white thoughts,
Yet in the barrenness a quiet hope takes root,
A tender shoot pushing through the chalky earth.
