I don’t know much about this poet but I loved the image this poem brought to my mind.
Sheep
Huddled, rain-drenched, forlorn they stood,
Their fleeces blown one way;
The wet wind cried in solitude
About the failing day.
Leaves whirled below, aloft; the sky
Sagged like a sodden shroud;
No stir of life, no pleading cry,
Came from the draggled crowd.
Sudden the western portals wide
Opened on that gaunt fold;
Then lo, a flock beautified
With fleeces dripping gold!
C. Kennett Burrow
TadMack says:
I often see the flocks of miserable, bedraggled sheep on the way toward the “lowlands” — Sort of Southwestern Scotland — and I wonder how they can be so still. I suppose wet wool is very warm, and they don’t mind the stink. They are so silent in their suffering though; I love the image of the sun breaking through — as it so often does — at the end of the day, gilding them in liquid gold. Beautiful.
While I read the first two verses, I thought, “Wow, this is painfully sad!” Then came the glory of the 3rd verse . . .
Susan, thanks for letting me know about Bloggers new feature. This is so cool. And yes, hopefully, LJ will follow suit.
Don, Devas T.