The Blake Sheep Replies

A

I arose, sprung up
from my mother miles away
from his apple-eye.
The pickets of his pen graze
my hooves but decay with age.

B

Red sky during the day –
the air bears more bleating
in this twenty-first century
and mutton’s fit for eating –
so this one could go either way.

C

What’s the time Mister wool-
seller in shepherd’s clothing?

D

Yes, we’ve heard the shepherd's voice
and some have gone to the gloves for shearing;
see, he shoulders and wears our mothers during winter.
As for me and my fleece, we sauntered into the clearing.

Emoliage

The furore is on to find our blackest flower.
So far, we’ve only found the Prussian blue-
blood hues of the blootered finger
held to the board, and hammered.

The festival staff are sick and tired.

Black Pansy, never enough. Black Lily,
never enough. Black Iris, never enough.
Always an occasional vein to carry
a liniment-light to every extremity.

The festival staff are sick with worry.