Miranda by Edwina Smith

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It is a pretty spot one may well admire
This land holds a history of harsh drought and fire

The farm has gentle hills others very steep
A home for generations an ideal place for sheep

Miranda had a job her project took a year
She grew a fleece of wool and now it’s time to shear

Perhaps a little precious not fond of being shorn
But it must be done before her lamb is born

Many years were spent in perfection of her line
Today she is known as Merino Superfine

Time to get a start according to the clock
Waiting in the holding pen with the others of her flock

And so the day begins nothing more is said
The combs come alive within the shearing shed

A highly skilled team and trusted roustabout
They’ll have the lot done before the day is out

It’s Miranda’s turn! She’s plucked from the fold
Taken swift but kind safe in expert hold

The shearer knows his trade and shorn across the land
Miranda needn’t fret there’s not a better hand

The shears begin to buzz belly, back legs and ‘round
Taking extra care where her teats are found

Topknot trimmed away chest and neck are clear
With skill of a surgeon around her eye and ear

Now the pace quickens moves becoming bolder
Shears glide to take the fleece away from Miranda’s shoulder

Then longer blows shearer’s got the knack
The fleece is giving way handpiece sweeps her back

Next the other side strength completes the job
Miranda’s out the shoot and rejoins her mob

Miranda returns to graze and grow next year’s clip
Today’s fleece will make its way to foreign lands by ship

As early Springtime comes marked by longer days
She’ll have another job to do a newborn lamb to raise

Image from Pixabay

Nursery Nonsense by James Aitchison

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Mary had a little lamb,

it grew into a sheep. 

It got so big and woolly,

she gave it to Bo Peep.

Little Bo Peep was

minding the sheep,

eating her curds and whey,

when a massive great spider

sat down beside her

and would not go away.

She sent off a text

to her pals Jack and Jill;

with three blind mice,

they ran up the hill.

All the king’s horses ran away with the spoon

and the sheep jumped over the moon.

Photo by James Aitchison

My Sheep Rock by James Aitchison

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I saw some rocks in Ireland

and the farmer there explained,

“I built myself a little wall

to keep my sheep contained.”

“The big stones on the bottom,”

the smaller ones on top,

and it cost me not a penny

for my roaming sheep to stop.”

“And who needs to have a gate

when you have this kind of pen?

I just lift some stones away,

then put them back again.”

Teacher’s note: Dry stone walls are constructed of carefully selected interlocking stones without mortar to hold them in place. Found in hilly areas of Britain, Scotland and Ireland, especially in Connemara on the West Coast where large stones exist in the soil. One system of Irish dry stone walls was carbon-dated to 3800 BC. Closer to home, dry stone walls can be found in western Victoria, some parts of Tasmania, and around Kiama in New South Wales.

The Pillow That Couldn’t Sleep by James Aitchison

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There once was a pillow

that couldn’t sleep,

not even when

it counted sheep. 

It stared at the ceiling

all through the night,

until over the sill

came dawn’s bright light.