My little lamb is new. He cannot stand.
I lick his tiny ears, I lick him clean–
His dreamy head that doesn’t understand
The care I take, the trouble he has been

Are just for love, for bringing him alive
And straightening his back that sags amiss
And passing on the will to make him strive
To use those limbs. All this is done by kiss.

Perhaps I nudge too hard in my relief,
Perhaps this one will never stand up straight.
I’ll walk away as if to savour grief
And nibble grass. And do not look. But wait.

That scrap I left behind now struggles free
First to its knees, then suddenly complete
From shoulder down to spindle calling me
And back I rush in answer to its bleat.

Alasdair Aston