You will never see them frolic, you’ll never hear them bleat.
They are quietly unassuming in the busy Bicester street.
In the darkness of the night, and in the humdrum of the day,
They never leave their posts – in fog and wind and rain, they stay.
They breathe the smoke outside the Saxon, hear the music from the Bell.
They learn the gossip outside ARGOS from the tales the locals tell.
They hear the Friday Market banter, watch the shoppers come and go…
As they spill from Sainsbury’s car park, into Coles and M & Co.
Stretching from the Church, down to the traffic-coated Square…
They guard the Charity Shops, the pop-up shops, the shops no longer there.
They never sleep, the Black Sheep, you never see them graze…
They only show their faces, as if wary of our gaze.
As you near the Market Square five other sheep loom into sight,
They are larger than the others and by contrast, they are white.
In the daytime rush and dusk’s hush, they huddle sheepishly,
Outnumbered ten to one – yet they’re the ones the people ‘see’.
Ask the locals where the sheep are and they’ll merrily declare…
‘Just outside the White Hart Pub, before the Market Square’
They go about their business, eyes towards the ground…
As if unaware that 56 black sheep stand all around…
Their faces peering from their posts, reticent and shy,
Unobtrusively observing each unknowing passer-by.
So next time you walk on Sheep Street, briefly tarry for a while…
Look their way, and say ‘Good Day’… perhaps you’ll see them smile.
Copyright (c)Mac McFadden 2016
