Skeleton of a lamb, but with wings, and during The Troubles.
A bombed high-school at night with a hole in its side; we rebel into enemies. One of us, outnumbered in a room, and too few reinforcements rush by.
At the window exit, the ossein lamb. Its rib-wrungs and bleached skull wag, motions for a boost.
Smiling at me, it flies out, bone wings dispel the devils.
On the grass expanse, so few of us now, but her resurrection, and her short voyage.