“What’s for Supper?”


To get closer to the hay rack, a ewe lamb has jumped on the back of a ewe at the feeder, and is looking at me brightly with a question in her eye.

My own question is: where are the rest of the lambs? I still have two older ewes that have not given birth, and at least two yearlings that I saw bred, and ditto. Yet I haven’t had any new lambs since February 25 — tomorrow it will be three weeks.  Ewes come into heat every 16 or 17 days, so even if Edelweiss or Georgie, my older ewes, were somehow not bred in the same early round as everyone else, they should have been bred in the next and should have lambed by now. As always, I am hoping against hope that there is nothing dire at work.

Friday my shearer Roger comes, and perhaps once their heavy coats are off more will be clear.

*   *   *

Five days ago a young colleague died unexpectedly. Yesterday we learned that a long-time friend of our youth, the husband of my dear friend Julia who died of cancer two years ago, had lost his own fight with cancer.

This has been a winter for grieving and funerals. The sky is grey and it is sleeting dismally, a bleak scene that reflects my current bleak mood.


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