A spring lambent?
The crumbling o’ the dry-stane dike
Its saddened sedimentary state
Hard graft, the farmer’s lads won’t like
But to the sheep? An extra gate!
A chance to wander, early doors
To taste sweet grass that lay in wait
By steps, at last each lamb explores
Too soon the mint sauce, for their mate.
Enjoy your frolics in the field
In pastoral casinos sat
The dinner table soon revealed.
I bet you didn’t gambol on that.
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