From the terrace at Polesden Lacey, it was
the guttural calls caught our attention –
then sheep flowing fast over rising ground
like a pale yellow banner in the wind,
then the shepherd himself, then his dogs
flattening themselves at his command.
By the time we reached the valley bottom,
the beasts were penned – lambs from ewes,
the latter funnelled for the shearers.
The bleating drowned the whirring of the clippers.
From the high bridge over the Tweed at Kelso,