Who can witness the joy of being alive
And yet bring that life to a sudden end?
Surely that joy, as seen in a lamb
cavorting in the fields of early Spring,
deserves to know a living Summer day?
Merits the chance of enjoying the bliss
of resting cosy and content on mother’s outstretched legs,
pressing close against her loving chest?How can it be right to end a joyful life
for a few soon eaten and forgotten meals?
The avid meat eater makes a quick response:
“Well look at the way things go in Nature.”
(Alas, for carnivores there is no other way).
But we are omnivores, not carnivores,
so for us there is another way.How shocking that he who cared for mother
is the one who steers her son up the ramp
of the truck that takes him to his end!
And yet bring that life to a sudden end?
Surely that joy, as seen in a lamb
cavorting in the fields of early Spring,
deserves to know a living Summer day?
Merits the chance of enjoying the bliss
of resting cosy and content on mother’s outstretched legs,
pressing close against her loving chest?How can it be right to end a joyful life
for a few soon eaten and forgotten meals?
The avid meat eater makes a quick response:
“Well look at the way things go in Nature.”
(Alas, for carnivores there is no other way).
But we are omnivores, not carnivores,
so for us there is another way.How shocking that he who cared for mother
is the one who steers her son up the ramp
of the truck that takes him to his end!
The mother cannot believe her lamb has gone and calls
and searches the field so many, many, times,
quickly passing over retained ewe lambs.
For days, for weeks, she stands, ears pricked forward
listening for his youthful answering call.But that call is a call that never comes.
Why cannot we be satisfied with a yearly crop of wool?
A fabric as gentle as that loving mother’s soul.
And leave the lambs to clip the grass with delicate lips,
manuring the earth as they pass, and treading flat the pastures,
bruised by cattle, with their lightweight golden hooves.
So that we never have again to look into those sad dark eyes
where dwell the tortured fragments of a grieving heart.
Adam Dowell, 2005
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