Stillborn Lamb

I note, always,

this time of year,

buds, shoots, promises

and cuttings off.

Must be the rigours of winter

hold sway yet.





Pushed out

from semi Illumination,

some warmth, mutual beats

and bonded

into darkness.

Pulled into a seeming pre-determination.





Still, hearing little,

the last to go.

But then even though

so close, so still.

Connected, but dead.

Prodded, finding no satisfying response, disposed.

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