© John Wood
poem By Donna Gillies
The haar drags its fingers across the curves of the farm,
Rustling the top of the shelter as it passes,
Tickling the back of my neck.
“Give me lambs” it whispers, “and I will hold them in my embrace,
Cooling their new born wool,
Caressing their breath away.”
I pray for the sun’s weak rays to strengthen, and burn the haar off,
To warm the ground and offer it’s promise of life to our flock.
The haar seems to feel the prayer, and pulls back from the lambing field.
I watch as the ewes pace, settle, and rise to pace again.
Pawing the ground impatiently. Stretching their necks back over their shoulders.
Resigned to waiting, they settle again, faces to the sun.
Do they also call for the sun to warm the world before bringing their babes into it?
Whatever the reason, they delay,
and I brush the chill off my neck with cold fingers.
Quiet settles again.
The haar pulls away.
It’ll get no lambs this morning.