Shap Fell

In the murk of evening
and car-heater fug, a thud.
My five-year-old head hits the roof.

The sheep is not quite dead.
Bloodied on the top of Shap Fell
her breath disappears into mist.

No cars pass. I pray to see the sheep
haul up onto matchstick legs,
run into the moonlight.

A shape appears from the fog,
shocks with a knock on the window.
The farmer has a gun and shouts.


Jenny Robb is from Liverpool and has been published in both online and print magazines and in poetry anthologies. She has forthcoming publications in Prole, Orbis and The Dawntreader. Her debut pamphlet will be published by Yaffle Press in 2021.