Beauty

She stands aloof, not in the crowd,

Noble head held stately, proud,

Black woolly coat dewily gleaming,

In the morning sun gently steaming.

     She’s the Leader of the herd.

Her sisters mooch among the rushes,

Grazing lazily where clear burn gushes,

She stands still, erectly royal,

Always guarding, always loyal,

     As the Leader of the herd.

She watches all the calves at play,

As they jump about, then gallop away.

She feels a movement, her time is near,

A pain rips through, her eyes show fear

     In the Leader of the herd.

She walks away, her rule forgot,

She finds a lonely, grassy spot,

Just in time as second pain

Grows, then lessens once again,

     In the Leader of the herd.

She stands, then lies and comfort seeks,

She’s waited for so many weeks,

The time is here, she pushes down,

As steaming calf slips to the ground

     From the Leader of the herd.

She’s up, no heed to pain she pays,

She needs to lick him, tail to face,

And gently nudge him to wobbly feet,

So he can find the place to eat

     From the Leader of the herd.

She spends some days, when all her care,

Is centred on her calf so dear,

But when he’s running round and round,

She calmly reclaims role and ground

     As the Leader of the herd.

Linda Watson 2009