The lamb of god is baaaing for guidance,
bleating fatty acids all over the land.
Guileless as weather it harries the yams,
herding women and children over the clifftop.
But now watch the innocence of the sheep’s
own tumble. Now here the heartbeat
beneath all the wool.
For who cries when the lamb of god dies?
Not the dreamtime ochres, definitely not the
Not the Greek gods either, smashing tectonic
plates full of oil and rosemary. Nor the
Romans’ Jove or old Moses fingering his
tablets in the sky.
Come on sheepy, its time to get local. Shed the
fashions of genocide, shuck all the icons,
fess up to your role as a friend of the poor.
Yes, time to show us the real ewe.