The Sunday Posts 2013/Fetching Cows
The black one, last as usual, swings her head
And coils a black tongue round a grass tuft. I
Watch her soft weight come down, her split feet spread.
In front the others swing and slouch; they roll
Their great Greek eyes and breathe out milky gusts
From muzzles black and shiny as wet coal.
The collie trots, bored at my heels, then plops
Into the ditch. The sea makes a tired sound
That's always stopping though it never stops.
A haycart squats prickeared against the sky.
Hay breath and milk breath. Far out in the West
The wrecked sun flounders though its colours fly.
The collie's bored. There's nothing to control....
The black cow is two native carriers
Bringing its belly home, slung from a pole.