Enjoying sun,

a seated shepherdess.

Newest lamb born pre-shrunk,

coat smocked as if thrift shop bought,

donation to refugee cause.

Rest of flock

intolerant of Unlikely to Live

head butt

or bunt away from choicest chomps.

Sad, bemused, he lays himself

at base of tree, mimics nativity

while I sit and oversee, sip tea,

swat flies, allow sun to massage,

dunk waterlogged biscuit.

Overnight,

world has dialled up further death.

I don't know what to say about it.