I walk along the lonely path,
The clifftop way that raggedly
Meanders into the steep-sided combe.
Up here in the heights of the moor,
Fields stretch for miles.
I come to a close pasture,
Replete with sheep and lambs.
Sheep, in twos and threes,
Huddle together by the herringbone wall,
Seeking warmth and comfort
From the threatening clouds
That hound them from the East.
That night when sleep overtook me,
I dreamt of sheep, and shepherds, and sheepdogs.
And I asked the sheepdog:
Why continue like this?
Why harry the sorry sheep for lucre?
Why worry them with unwarranted concern
And false claim?
Their bellies filled with flesh,
Their eyes focused on sheep-fear,
They cried:
They need us.
They want us.
They deserve us.
Their evil sins taint them
Declaim their stain upon us all.
Beware the evil sheep.
And then I wandered further from the yard
And came upon the flock
Resting in their field.
Why follow? Why listen?
Your leaders feed upon your fear.
They profit from your emotion.
They reap reward from your weak natures.
The sheep, cowering, stood motionless.
Until one amongst them
With faltering steps
Moved forward and said:
There is a tradition
It is said that a lamb
Was taken from us
Not any lamb you understand,
But one so special
That its like was never seen.
It is understood
That this lamb
Shall return.
Meanwhile, we must
Mind the actions
And the gestures
Of our keepers
Who lead us into fields
And keep us from
Going astray.
That lamb, I said,
Is dead. It shall never
See a return to these pastures.
Your eyes have not seen
That special nature you proclaim
Your ears have not heard
Anything but the legend
Of the lamb.
Abandon this venture
It shall never be realised.
Then the sheep moved aside
He turned his back upon me
And stared at the herringbone wall
Which crumbled into reality.
The warmth of morning sunlight
Fell full upon my face
And I awoke from my slumber,
To find a bed, a window, a dreamer.
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