There were forty-two
Sheep in the field
Forty-two
Or forty-three
Should it matter
You could count
Them in a photograph
If it is of such importance
If you wish
Pull on your Wellingtons
Plunge into the flooded mud
At the bog end bit of the field
By the stream
If that helps
Because I just wondered
If you would truly enjoy to sink
Cars drive by
Every morning
In sun, in rain
Or as today, today…
The field before the fallen tree
A few years ago now
The flowers too, surely
They will in turn die
A lonely walk this
The country in city clothes
Black on green, red on brown
The flowered lapel
It is the final story
This, and the tears
Which somehow are
Always to follow later
