From my glass-house on the cliff It's a sheer drop <br />Into the icy seaweeds of the fjord. <br /> <br />This morning I clearly saw five sheep, <br />Against all recommended procedures, <br />Against recognised animal practices, <br />Against the clock, <br />SwimmIng boldly and strongly out towards the horizon. <br /> <br />Each fleece was sodden with brine, <br />Each tough black face was nosing forcefully forward. <br /> <br />The lead sheep floundered first; <br />Spun by the ocean, <br />Round it turned as if on a roasting spit. <br />One by one the others sank and drowned, <br />Five pieces of flotsam bobbing like buoys. <br />One slim black leg was pawing a wave <br />As if it hoped to climb it, having a whale of a time. <br /> <br />I was a fly on the wall, <br />Watching from the porthole <br />High on the fissured cliff, half dead - or half alive - <br />But safe, safe, from the tentacles of the ocean, <br />Its seaweed swaying coldly to and fro.<br /><br />sheena blackhall<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-light-house-keeper-s-sighting/
