There has been much said of late of a renewed interest in new published poetry. I live in West Somerset on Brendon Hill, the East flank of Exmoor. This is farming country, in the main beef and sheep lands.  In the next few, late winter early spring, months there will be round the clock activity in calving and lambing sheds.

After a few nights in the sheds years back I wrote a piece, which after many edits emerged in Sonnet form as Dark Brendon Night.

DARK BRENDON NIGHT

Dark Brendon night, see lights shine out from sheds

where panting ewes and standing cows bide time

and through the night, tired souls get up from beds

and go again to watch their stock. Hours chime,

they wish themselves asleep some more and yet

seek out first signs of life to come; they wait

to ease the way with skill or call the vet

if trouble shows and problem signs dictate,

till bleating lambs and rasping licks relieve

concern and nursing dams bring young to suck.

The dawning sky creeps in the day to weave

as skipping legs and wagging tails will buck

about their pen.   The school bus comes uphill

to take the kids to class against their will.