Has lost her sheep These hands have performed all the acts a good shepherdess could. They’ve brought down a 13 stone Lincoln ram to shear off his curly coat in swathes. They’ve poked colonies of maggots out of the holes in a runt’s crawling rump that stank. They’ve pulled hanks of lamb from exhausted gimmers in the press of labour, then buried their after-births; marbleised bags of red, purple and pearl. A Wiltshire Horn ewe named Gentle followed like a dog at my heels for years. But now, in the shade of the palm of my hand I scan the hills, finding Gentle is gone.
Susan Taylor
17
