Cumbria

It seems untair to the sheep.
Now that the cull's on, they haven't a chance.
They can't help being round, contagious, and woolly
Ghostly herds bobble slowly down the track.

Their hauning is not sinister; it is not by design.
We gof let behind. Something went wrong.
An atom's half-life is the time it takes for half the mass to decay.
The halt-lite of a sheep is unnatural- survival of the faintest

Impression of a beast, marginalia-
Then erased. li is meaningless,
Our existing, like a noie on the leg of a pigeon leti blank:
No message. We can't eat

But we pretend to: that's inertia.
Like a wind-up foy, you can't unwind it.
The bolt in the head, the head on the pyre.
Then we wake up but we're not alive.

You can't take our picture. (We don't reflect light)
What can't be observed can't be changed by the viewer.
We're listening to the wind making shapes in the sky
Like sheep, ike smoke. Here we are, listening.