I should here post an American poem about sheep since I am an American. This one is written by Robert Francis but ironically it actually makes me think of my trip to the highlands of Scotland with my dear friend Hoff last August.
From where I stand the sheep stand still
As stones against the stony hill.
The stones are gray
And so are they.
And both are weatherworn and round,
Leading the eye back to the ground.
Two mingled flocks -
The sheep, the rocks.
And still no sheep stirs from its place
Or lifts its Babylonian face.