On Seeing a Dead Lamb

Like the time of her birth away from the world's face
The mother moves to the edge to birth her lamb,
We stand, all of us, close to the fording-place
To hide our pain from the flock, our hour come.

There is no leading us on our journey's way
And before we come, no showing us the road
Nor is there guidance on our leaving day,
And once we're here, no sign on the road we trod.

In the afterbirth, the winding cloths of death
Bind life's two ends together, tightening,
And captured on the hedge the blood of birth
Declares the certainty of suffering.

Being March, the length of day and night are equal
All one, bed of the grave, bed of the cradle.

Copyright © 2003 Dic Jones All rights reserved
from The Bloodaxe Book of Modern Welsh Poetry
Bloodaxe Books/ Dufour Editions
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission