59. Elegy for a sheep

We're in Recloses again this weekend. In the back yard is a goat, Blanchette, and a sheep, Dolly. This morning we couldn't find Dolly. Usually she's hard to miss; like pigs, sheep loom much larger in real life than they do in little plastic barnyard toy sets. But, "Oh well. Not my sheep, not my problem," we thought.   A little while later, feeling curious, we made a more thorough search and found her in the tool shed.

This is from February, when she was feeling...a little more herself.

As elegy, a sonnet may not suit

for sharing grief, perhaps too far a leap.

But whether right or wrong, the point is moot;

for now I'll try to write one for a sheep.

Old Dolly'd been around for many years;

I met her at the tail-end of her life.

She frankly scared me; do not judge, my dears:

with sheep, my time on Earth has not been rife.

She trundled like a tank made out of wool,

was thick of head and merciless of gaze.

Though often clumped and brown, her coat was full.

She drew, upon her yard, a poo-lined maze.

She met her end at night and in the shed;

it took a while to find out she was dead.

I can't help wondering if this is in terribly poor taste.