Lambing Season

by Catherine Kay

Mounting the headland exertion whips me

Sharp March wind pushing my progress back

Midpoint, my lungs give out dizzy with exertion

Empty stomach pouch pounds again

I am stalled.

Catching my breath by the lambing field

I watch last week's boy leap.

Age has him cocky

Standing atop his weary mother’s back

Bleating his smug, defiant homily.

Below, two-toned twins leapfrog each other

Their easy existence mystifying me.

Against the mid-morning wind

Yesterday’s latest edition wobbles on buckling legs

By nightfall he might thrive.

Muffled by golden gorse a lone mother’s

Frightened, pleading bleat.

Breath regained I tackle the summit

The frothy cove arcs below

The lighthouse steadies, the crescent’s constant

Raindrops camouflage the tears that stream.

Returning down, gravity gives me the edge

Sprinting past that new life paddock

The lone sheep’s panicked cries

Softened now within a stormy crescendo.

Passing the half hidden holy well

Frozen fingers dip in clear, kind water

Last night’s hemorrhage still vivid under ragged nails

Bloodied hands skim gnarly hawthorn

Stroke my weather-worn stomach

Out of all alternatives, mystic myths entice.

The road curves and flattens, we are on the home straight

Today’s battered fuchsia, tomorrow’s bell-drop beauty

Angry red profusion billows over the brook.

The dog strains, heckles up, senses raw

The day old lamb soggily submerged

Shocks us both. Bald and lifeless

High up on the peak the mother keens still

Both of us unwilling yet, to admit defeat.