The Herdwicks in the pasture
are knee deep in flood water.
They’re heafed to the foot of Scafell.
This is their land.
A lone walker crosses the field
and takes five balls from his pocket.
Facing the flock, he juggles
until one of the balls drops.
The sheep watch the incomer
with indifference. He knows nothing.
He would not juggle if he had foot rot.
He, too, would be unmoved.
First published in The Interpreter’s House
© Deborah Mason 2014