I was walking over the Lakeland fells.
(I suppose I had been that way before
But never, I think, at spring lambing-time).
The grass pullulated with new life and,
As little wrinkled puffballs danced a round,
Frolicking in a careless reverie,
I noticed, just under the slate-stone wall,
Almost hidden by a little rustic
Stile, a cold stiff sheep, which must have expired
In the act of giving birth: the tiny
Body of its dead child projecting from
Its smothering wool.
All was changed from sky to tree,
Draining the colour from the world, and me.
“IT DOES NOT BELONG”