Around the rim of the dried up pond
the numbered lambs are running.
Joe has watched them for hours
noting the way they leave the ewes, form groups,
follow a leader.

"Cup of tea, Mr Morris? I'll leave it here."
Joe sees the uniform retreat,
the kindly, comforting one.
The lambs are feeding now,
butting and tugging at swollen sacs.
Joe sips tea.

How long?  A few months?
till they're rounded up, taken.
He cannot think of it, turns his head,
puts down the cup, careful not to clatter,
picks up the paper but his arms cannot hold it.
Closes his eyes.

Between wake and sleep
no one is running.
Joe sees his lamb with its mother,
soft, dark curls. Rounded up, taken.
In the wagon for Pitchipoi.
The uniforms fade with the mother's whisper
"Joseph, Joseph…"