A passing cloud, black, distracts the sheep at grass;
in unison, forty seven brown marble eyes watch it pass,
weigh the darkness, sniff the rain, keep at the task
of lambing.
The one eyed farmer stands astride the stile, dry stone wall,
he notes, in need of repair. Counting the string of moles
turning coins in his pocket, his dog he calls
by whistling.
The sheep know the dog has teeth, on cue they bleat.
Tracing the path of the pipeline, the farmer leads
his dog, moles on a string, to the next field
for lambing.
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The Blue Book, now with virtual calories, 304 Yen
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