Spring Lamb

Once there was a time when all of this was fields, but enough about databases, especially those home to large herds of sheep roaming the hillsides and causing excitement in the shepherding community unheard of since the last radical redesign of the wellie.

Let us go, ewe and I, now the evening is spread out against the sky and do not let us talk again of mint sauce and new potatoes 'ere the morn lifts its tired eyes above the horizon as I tell tales of great sheep of yesteryear and the tale of the tail of the golden fleece.

We were young once and gambolled like lambs, well, you gambolled and I stood there with my shepherd’s crook grasped firmly in my hand. We were young and in love and you knew knew little of the world, even though the older, wiser rams told you horror tales of the best end of neck, chump chops and just what scrag end really entails.

Such a life was not for you, though, my love, for there is nothing that gets an old shepherd like me feeling himself again like the sight of a mature sheep ambling fully-fleeced over the hillsides in the dawn's early light, or the late twilight summer evening when the sky promises those such as me so much delight, especially when you see I'm wearing my best wellies and have a handful of that special grass you like so much.

Let us go, then, you and I, and spend the autumn of your years together on the hillside for one more brief summer.