My crunching across this frozen field wakes sleeping sheep, due to lamb. The nearby turlough ripples brush across Moon’s fragmented image, a lone swan pirouettes– half a Claddagh Ring.
I welcome the fog though it snuffs out the moon. It is still so bright. No sign of any lamb.
Days later I walk the same field with a squelch. Incessant rain has drowned the moon. Still no lamb. My watch flashes: midnight.