Come On…Come On…

We’d watched and learned

Our noses pink from unseasonal warmth

Through April and May

How the farmer

Pulled stubborn lambs from the ewe

Revived the still-born with vigorous shakes

Rubbing orphans with the bloody mess birth makes

Sneaking them close, out of mother’s view

So she would stand and suckle two

Even though she had borne just one


Through new nettles we stepped

To gather up the nervous flock

To face down the boisterous lambs

Turning them towards their baa’ing mums

As they tried to twist and leap by

Running at us down the hill

Like gangs of children freed from school

And then later in the summer

You with strong maternal craft

Led the old sheep back to the barn

Without the need to catch her young


Daily moving, feeding and watering chickens

Removing victims of the fox

Returning together on the quad

Then in the orchard you sat with bottles

Feeding Daisy-Mae and the others

Naming animals, though not encouraged

Made morning and evening special

As blossom turned to small hard fruit

You happily fed your woolly babies


We watched the herd of fifty-six

Clear each fresh meadow of the sheep

To ensure that they would get the best

One day you stepped into their heavy midst

To rescue the little one enclosed by the cattle

He so curious, you so brave

No nonsense, firm and swiftly done

You saved him from the hefty hooves

Set him down and let him run


We watched and learned

Our skin weathered

By the wind and rain of mid-summer

To prepare the cows’ route

From field to field along the hedges

Along the electrified lines

We opened gates and stood well back

Leaving them their safe space

Then called them on and let them run

Down the hill and on between the posts

They could sense the fresh pasture in the air

On their sloppy, bubbled, rough tongues

They chased each other to the new grazing

In breath-taking leaps and thundering charge


In our first summer of such work

We grew fitter, stronger, closer

Until winter’s dark advance cast doubt

Separation leaving us scratched, stung and shocked

But the gate is open; has never closed

I cannot drive you where you will not go

But call as softly as I can

“Come on…Come on…”

That you might is yours to choose


CLP 27/12/2019

Published by

Christopher Perry

Liberté, Equalité, Humanité