Sheep at the summit are smoky from sleeping

in fresh-burnt gorse.

East of the Cow Stone, a cow-circle,

one standing, three lying chewing the cud.

They don’t see or scent the dogs.

A flicker of slavering hound-shadow

will ignite a stampede: heartbeats race

hoof, horn, and fear of splintering bone.

We slink back to the fold by hollows

and screens of last year’s bracken.

Chris Kinsey