Here’s an idea so simple and brilliant that you might wish you’d thought of it yourself; a writer scrawls words instead of the usual luminous identifying marks on the backs of sheep, creating random poetry as they mill around, vacantly chewing cud, munching grass and being flustered by Skip the farmers dog. These poetry sheep are on a farm in Morpeth, about 12 miles from where I live and it’s a testament to the craziness of the internet that I only found out about it via Anne’s Ottawa-based weblog.