Wool Nights

Wool Nights

(for Andrew Kennon)

A loose sheep in a paddock—

possibly half the brain,

definitely twice the legs

as the cursing, chasing farmer—

can be brought back to the main

flock via an iron hook

on a long thin pole,

similar to a shepherd’s crook

but more closed. Slipped

on a hind leg of a flighty wether,

feisty ram, poncing lamb

the escapee is nicely tripped,

tackled for the count, the crutching,

castration, drench or shear.

(lonely farmers have been known to hold

a merino ewe unspeakably dear!).

I dagged and cast fleeces

at a Raywood shed in my youth,

can with Andrew chew the fat

about the drought, “Struth!”,

talk microns, his farm’s “green pick”,

sing Matilda and the Click

Go song, but somewhere life went wrong:

I have no fat lambs to count.

This distant land grows slate;

no Border Leicester might ruminate

its unfermentable grass.

Nevertheless, in the village one day

Contador’s shop I was about to pass

when I entered and bought,

despite the questioning look,

a black iron hindleg hook.

Heat, heavy hammer, an oath or two,

the hook I opened to ninety degrees,

fitted it to a fine pine pole

two metres 35 long, one screw.

The device now stands tall

by the bedroom wall

(occasionally raising a visitor’s eye)

and serves, tiptoe, to reach the

skylight set in the ceiling, so high,

opening it to breathe summer night.

On my desk-bent back I lie

and  shepherd those wayward stars

in unfenced fields of lush sky,

a tally only a fool tries to keep

but it farms the way

to wool-cheque sleep.

Rod Usher