My back against the straw rick
I rest in the lambing pen,
listening to cows cudding in the dark,
their tails swishing against the buzzing flies.

I lie still, knowing pain is next door.
The lamb is already knocking at the gates,
kicking away, impatient to shift
from the pastures of my body
to the bales of hay and my warm flank.

Green grasses and clovers were aplenty here;
but I was driven to meadows
sparse and brown.
His crook prodded me,
his throwing-stick stood poised.
His shaggy dogs with their hair-screened eyes
growled when I dragged my feet.
I was herded into the sere,
into meadows dung-scabbed,
gnawed half-way to the root,
or past scythed fields
where knees bled
from the razor-cuts of stubble.

We would die of bloat, he said,
if we fed on clovers.
The stomach would turn;
thyme-scented turf was not for the likes of us.

I know of failing strength and faltering feet.
I know I am hungry but I cannot eat,
for though I am patient
the lamb within me has turned urgent
as it twists and strains against my side
and turns as I turn against the straw rick.

The smell of roasts drifts across my nostrils.
(My first-born had vanished
when his prodigal returned.)
The shepherd's hearth is warm
his cooking pot is full
the smoke from his chimney wreathes the valley.
Next morning
downs silvered with the last frosts
and the ice at the river's edge
glittering like crushed glass;
the lamb at my side licked clean;
I nibble on dry grass
unleavened with the night dews.
The green-sprout days
will shortly sun the lamb.
The Lord is my shepherd;
I shall not want.