flocks of sheep paused their grazing,
looked up to speak to me,
the bright moon kept watch,
like a big farm dog,
looking over a tall birch tree!
I condoned with their bleating,
of their inhuman suffering,
heard their soul’s appeal!
the green meadow fed them,
from fresh goodness of its being,
knowing too well,
that this would be their last meal!
Imagist poetry contest
Brian Strand
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