I’m on the phone with the
mental health nurse
talking about the weather
when I first learn of the
lambing snow, that fleeting earthly frosting,
when the snow – long given up for spring –
marks the lambs being born.
I tell my little girls, mesmerised
by this meeting of metereology and zoology,
their soft warm bodies
touching mine as side by side
we watch the flakes fall
through the glass doors
each one a lamb being born.
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POETRY: Issue 35