A decent day, a decent track
High in the hills in sight of Snowdon
Muddy underfoot with an enormous grey sky
The bleating of a thousand sheep

A decent day, a decent wind
Bearing spots of fine rain in its chilled breath
Enough to cool the sweat of the miles
But less than would the distant snow

New lambs call in alarm
As mothers shepherd them to safety
Away from this rare intrusion
To suckle and protect

And yet the carnage of the night is all around
Hollow ribs and sightless holes
Witness the local terror
That comes from the dark

There is nothing to be done
And who are we to judge
When later we enjoy the spring lamb