On the soft earth of Devon I am changing. I watch, and gather, and in this learn something about the ways summer is coming into England, and into me.
There are sheep-marks in the rising green. Wool caught on low-boughed oaks and blackthorns. Hidden places where the lambs were born, where the dark placental stains have dried. The lambs are growing up now, fleecy and plump, nosing at their mothers.