Be all that as it may,
on a fertile isle
north of here — called Ronaldsay —
short-tailed sheep, their fleeces
shades of red, tan and grey,
have matched their need
between the tides
to newfound feed.
They’ve salvaged from the rocky shore
a fill of seaweed.
Foragers, ever since the crofters mured
them outside the fields
they conserved for crops. Inured
to it — ‘One hand washes
the other’ — they’ve endured.
They’ve been learning not to care
for ages now,
on scanty fare.
They must slake their thirsts on dew
and other alms of the air.