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.
