I sit here fat, burdened and weighted,
Part of the flock,
The slog of the year hanging off my skin.
And while coated and warm, my inner layers soft,
All I can see is the dirt and the mud that clings.
I am comfortable, I think-
But it is only when the farmer's firm hand grabs me tight,
Cushions me between his thighs, manhandles me,
holding me awkwardly and worriedly on my back,
shaving me, close to the skin, gently,
With never a cut or a nick,
That I realise being comfortable is more than that.
I emerge from my warm cocoon shivering,
A new creature, with features and angles,
and I never knew my wool could be so white.
To think that I had almost forgotten
What it was to only carry the weight
Of what is truly me.
YOU ARE READING
Fleece
PoetryA Poetry Collection I have been experiementing with poetry the last year! The first few pieces are my earlier work, and it does get better the more recent the chapter. Enjoy!
