The Shepherds are on Quad Bikes

The shepherds are on quad bikes.

They wear Adidas and drink Black Sheep. 

Still, only they know the tenderness of hills:  

fleecy skies, the shiver of gorse; empty lanes 

and the prayer of a winter dawn. Their angels 

are on Instagram; their psalms are by Dave. 

They dream of glad tidings: Lotto numbers 

daubed in red, while lifting lambs like trophies. 

They’ve lost count of the sleepless nights: 

ice on the cattle grids, lost ewes, and a moon 

herding clouds into the fold of the horizon. 

Few follow the crowd, but wait for a miracle; 

like finding, at the back of a cave, a cache of 

stolen iPhones bundled like the Dead Sea Scrolls.