The sheep don’t speak here,
They don’t even smile,
One wagged its tail when I called - but then ran like the others,
Shit spilling out its arse like wet breadcrumbs to the turf,
A dagged fairytale,
A path I won’t follow,
I’ll take my chances in the woods,
Where my footsteps will fade,
Forgotten by people, forgiven by time,
If only I could walk on clouds,
You’d never know I was here,
Much to the sheep’s relief.
And mine.
2
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About the Creator
Gavin J Innes
Scottish Writer Living in that London.
I pen plays, poems, prose and alliterations.
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