Another week has flown on wings of steel
Ukraine fights starving without drink or meal
Flurries of snow bluster but take no roots
Gunfire echoes while those soldiers’ boots
Stampede the icy blasts of Europe’s heart
Leaving us aching to take gentle part
In reconciliation’s hand of peace –
Instead we stand by, helpless, while the fleece
Of Blenheim’s flock whitens within their field.
We comfort take, light candles, find a shield
To raise, a flag to fly, a child to mourn
While many new mouths in our manor, born
As innocents will witness the disgrace
Of mankind’s cruelty to man. Our race
Will not survive unless we curb the hate
Transmute it into love. Are we too late
Or can we turn the tide? We have no choice:
Our sheep must safely graze. So give them voice
Let them in springtime suckle, bleat and stare
Filling our fields with their woolly care.
Let them grow fat beneath the noonday sun
Munching on Blenheim’s grass. For I shall come
To check and monitor, to make quite sure
In their survival lies tomorrow’s cure.