Counting Sheep Poem by Tor Magnor Solvang

The frost was biting at the glass,
My bedtime struggle would not pass.
An hour spent in toss and turn,
Watching the midnight hours burn.

I needed sleep, I needed rest,
To put my heavy head to chest.
Then came to mind my parents' words,
A trick to soothe the wakeful herds:
'Just count some sheep, ' they used to say,
'To chase the restless thoughts away.'

So out of bed I softly stepped,
While all the frozen household slept.
I pulled my heavy trousers on,
Before the coming of the dawn.

Inside the barn, in cozy stalls,
Safely tucked within the walls,
Were twenty five woolly sheep,
Awaiting dreams and quiet sleep.

I threw the heavy latch aside,
And opened up the barn doors wide.
Back to my room I quickly sped,
Took two thick mattresses from my bed.

Stacking them high against the pane,
To watch the snow-swept outer lane.
I pressed my face against the glass,
To watch the pale procession pass.

Out they drifted, slow and white,
Into the bitter, blinding night.
I counted them as they broke free,
Until the final twenty-three.

Then twenty-four, and twenty-five,
No longer warm inside their hive.
They vanished in the drifted white,
Swallowed by the winter night.

Then sudden movement caught my eye,
Beneath the freezing, starlit sky.
My father, woken by the sound
Of bleating echoes all around,

Was running frantic through the snow,
Where all those scattered sheep did go.
So did I find my peaceful sleep,
By counting up those literal sheep?

Oh, no. For two long weeks ahead,
I found no comfort in my bed.
A heavy hand, a lesson taught,
Had ruined my every peaceful thought.

With aching butt and sore backside,
No place for me was left to hide.
I learned that night, beneath the frost,
Some sheep are better left uncrossed.