I was eating my dinner late last night
When a call came on the caravan phone:
“There’s a ewe over here and she’s gone off on her own
So wear your overalls and bring your headlight
Because any second now you might see a birth
She’s bleating low and wandering about
Already now her fluid sack is out
And she’s pushing for all that she’s worth.
I put on my boots and ran to the shed
My torch threw a shadow of the sheep on the wall
She stood quite still but didn’t push at all
So the farmer put his hand in to try and find the head,
But the head and the feet did not belong to each other
“A tangle of limbs,” he said leaning on the gate
So he closed his eyes to help him concentrate
“Come on lass, help me!” he whispered to the mother.
But she left it to him to pull the two tiny hooves
One mouth, one nose inching out more and more
Until down it slid to the straw, barn floor.
We rubbed it dry as it started now to move
With a shake of its head it and a miniscule sneeze
The old ewe licked its tiny, woollen side
But we knew that she still had another inside
As she stood there not pushing, not even a squeeze.
My turn, I said, got a new glove out
Took a deep breath then gently let my arm
Disappear inside that ewe on the farm
It was warm in there; I felt about:
Two legs and the head correctly presented -
I grasped with my fingers and thumb so slippery,
And heaved and pulled, the suction against me
I felt it wriggle as it slowly relented
And little by little out came two tiny hooves
One mouth, one nose inching out more and more
Then down I brought it to the straw, barn floor.
We gave it to the mother and watched it start to move
With a shake of the head and legs all quivering
The old ewe licked its tiny woollen side
We both felt elated and bursting with pride.
I sprayed iodine and pulled colostrum from the udder,
Then dried the little lambs to stop them from shivering.
