The shepherds are on quad bikes.
They wear Adidas and drink Black Sheep.
Still, only they know the tenderness of hills:
fleecy skies, the shiver of gorse; empty lanes
and the prayer of a winter dawn. Their angels
are on Instagram; their psalms are by Dave.
They dream of glad tidings: Lotto numbers
daubed in red, while lifting lambs like trophies.
They’ve lost count of the sleepless nights:
ice on the cattle grids, lost ewes, and a moon
herding clouds into the fold of the horizon.
Few follow the crowd, but wait for a miracle;
like finding, at the back of a cave, a cache of
stolen iPhones bundled like the Dead Sea Scrolls.
