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.