Mint Sauce

These tortured souls that wail upon the hills

Whose fleecy coats and jocund smiles conceal

The horrors and the torment they endure.

They live a curs-ed life these beasts in wool

Who swelter in the shade of tiny walls.

In fearsome heat of angry midday sun

Their hunger drives them , constantly to eat.

But slug-filled tufts of thorny thistled herb

Just leave unsated insulated ewes

And rams, unmated, seeking further food.

The foulest flora daily is their cud

Its bitter pulp is their eternal toil.

I’d hate to be a chewing sweating sheep

Whose roasted fate’s to cause my Sunday sleep.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I spent some time cycling in Yorkshire during the heat wave and found inspiration for this poem in the mournful wail of the sheep.  Another attempt at a sonnet, my second, not really sure if i've got the right idea yet but i enjoyed writing the poem anyway. Enjoy...

View jerseyteacher's Full Portfolio