My dogs

shape shadows

bend sheep past trees

through shouts

through gates

and down

to the outer farms dark rim

dogs get born

and work

old dogs

die

the flock

unknowingly

reprint

their shadow shapes

in the mornings

dew grass

silver tracks

that bend back

through gates

and back again

through trees

to the upper fields

fresh grass

the older shadows

bound below

the heaped stones

that go to mark each grave

—————.

©jj

Sheepdogs by John Jones