Little Sheep

When I look at the fake fur, white as walls,
Every innocent memory beckons and calls,
When I touch it I feel both joy and sadness,
As I stare into this vastly blank canvas.

The lazy sunshine had washed us gold,
As we sat in the swing, creaking and old,
The crowd of sunflowers had swayed and smiled,
The South African heat had begun to drive us wild.

The room had been drenched in a nightly haze,
As I slept, I enjoyed its watchful gaze,
The stars had flickered, the night had grown deep,
As I laid side by side, with my precious sheep.

Back in England, the sky had hung low,
We’d both sat, and stared, watching my mother sew,
Her fabric was cream, like wax or a wilting rose,
There on the floor we’d been buried, for warmth, under a pile of cotton clothes.

Dust had settled around my toy up in the attic,
The haunting shadows contorted, had laid long and dramatic,
Dirty newspapers had sat, piled high all around,
My toy was just another grey memory, hiding, nowhere to be found.

Now here you are in my hands, crisp and new,
When I was first given you I had no clue,
Of all of the hardships you would see me through,
So, little sheep, I just wanted to say ‘Thank you.’