Hands cracked like old leather
spent hours scrubbing stains from
wee Rhuraidh's night terror, yellowing
sheets hanging limp in still air, like stuck sails
in doldrums. Last day, the new born lamb lay
unmoving on mangled legs, empty crowpicked eyes
stared up, watched his father strike
the final blow. Its gaze followed while he slept,
slipping quiet into dreams till it fled from
the screams as the door banged open:
'The lad wants tae toughen up!'then slammed
shut, but he heard his mother's silent cries
through black midnight light, felt the soft touch
of her warm hand, making the dry bed
gently, just as she always did.
This is good
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