Poem: transition

 

inside the dark wet heat: my hand, up to the wrist
feel he says, for tightness, like an elastic band

I feel
and there it is, the cervix

my fingers slip between its bow-strung stretch
and the lamb’s head

feel further

my fingers bend around bone - the pelvis - and in the wet dark
where all is animal, vital, complete, my hand learns
about the urge to birth

at the pink flesh opening, an emerging face
and two small legs, hooves first. I wrap my hand
around their wetness

pull, he says
I pull

nothing changes
the ewe is wide, still,
so much weight

sorry, I say, sorry
I don’t mean to hurt or intrude
but here I am and here she is
and there’s a job to do

pull
I pull harder, and click,
one leg is straight, then the second

my pull and the ewe’s push become one

the lamb slips out, splutters, breathes
we’re there, it’s here - a tup

the ewe turns her heavy head, licks

this small wet thing
bleating

 

Over the past year, Harriet has been slowly collating a set of poems inspired by our time in England’s upland commons, with commoners and many others whose work and lives connects them to these places. This poem is inspired by her time in the lambing sheds with John Heighway.