The Light-House Keeper's Sighting

From my glass-house on the cliff It's a sheer drop Into the icy seaweeds of the fjord. This morning I clearly saw five sheep, Against all recommended procedures, Against recognised animal practices, Against the clock, SwimmIng boldly and strongly out towards the horizon. Each fleece was sodden with brine, Each tough black face was nosing forcefully forward. The lead sheep floundered first; Spun by the ocean, Round it turned as if on a roasting spit. One by one the others sank and drowned, Five pieces of flotsam bobbing like buoys. One slim black leg was pawing a wave As if it hoped to climb it, having a whale of a time. I was a fly on the wall, Watching from the porthole High on the fissured cliff, half dead - or half alive - But safe, safe, from the tentacles of the ocean, Its seaweed swaying coldly to and fro.