Born in a deserted wood on a black night of dropping temperature and rising wind, to an undernourished ewe who had no previous experience, he got enough attention from her to keep him going until it was clear that he was a “bottle” lamb. And maybe a literary lamb: Ira Gershwin would have loved it.
He may not be the ram some
Ewes think of
As handsome . . .
On day two, still a bit bedraggled, he’s learned how to enjoy heat
and on day four he’s emulating Mary’s little lamb
and after that he’s displaying Blake’s “softest clothing wooly bright”.
We note that none of these authors puts a name to his lamb and we know why. Life is too fragile. So we haven’t named this fellow although he lives in our kitchen and eats every four hours. It won’t be long.
Jerry Wigglesworth, © February, 2015