Selected Poems
Shearing
Arriving too early or late into Lent,
we are lopsided and all only worth
the value of our cotty tag lock coats
thick with thorns, having strayed.
With the burnt reminder of death
thumbed promise into our forehead,
we bleat our displeasure and follow
dazed in lines, to the shed for shearing.
The view is always the same
until we are tossed back, nearly
naked to wander wild pastures.
If sinning was only that easy.
