She was soft and white with striking pink eyes
Patient to a fault, unless, when gathering wool,
You happened to cut deeper than intended.
She’d nip your finger and look sadly reproachful
Until you repented and promised never to do it again.
Her brood of three,
Bundles of white just like their mother,
Were pliable creatures with rose-red eyes
Long ears and fur, pledging yarn in abundance,
But long-lived, opposing the end of their dam.
Nothing presaged her sudden demise.
One morning her life snuffed out brought us sadness
And an unforeseen burial beneath the old apple tree
© HMH, 2013
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