Column of planets on a forearm

The frost has held the yard since Sunday and the water trough has a skin on it you could stand a spoon in. I am writing this by the lamp in the lambing shed with my boots steaming on the stove, so forgive the smudges. Mam says to tell you the Hollis boy has finally fixed the top gate, though it sags worse than before.

You asked in your last what I do with myself at night now you've gone. I walk up to the top field after the final check and look at the sky, because Dad took us up there when we were small and showed us the stars the way he showed us the flock, one at a time and always in the same order. Venus first, the only one honest enough to shine like it meant it. Then the rusty one that looks like it needs a wipe. Then the big striped one he called the weather-maker, and last the one with the ring, which he swore wobbled when the wind came off the hill. He said the moons were the calves that trailed their mothers round and never gave up trailing.

Last night the ewe in pen four would not push, and I was on my knees in the straw until near three with my arm inside her, thinking about nothing but the lamb's legs. When she finally gave me the second one, I stood in the doorway wiping my hands on the sacking and the sky had cleared. I could see the whole lot of them lined up above the far hedge, and for once I didn't count them. I just let them stand in their order.

Tell Dad the ringed one is still there, won't you. Tell him both lambs are up and sucking. The post van comes Thursday if the road holds, so write back soon.

Love, Bea