The antenatal fields fill
with slow, lumbering ewes,
staggering under their own weight,
lying listlessly while they wait
for their time to finally come.
But across the road in maternity,
there’s energy everywhere
as crazy hour seizes the lambs
and gambling new-born gangs
race their mothers ragged.
This year I sadly can’t visit
Birchfield Farm’s lambing live
but I stop every chance I get
to watch each butting head
and gleefully wiggling tail.
It’s not the same as bottle feeding
and stroking the lambs in the shed
but it’s still a miracle up close,
an uplifting daily dose
of tiny bleats charging the air.