April Commute

a.m.
I know where the deer have been over Easter:
I put my boot in the same direction.
The Pavlov dog is set off like a trap,
as I swing over the first gate.

The hare is astonished.
The two Canada geese are still honking
at their imaginations, but the pheasant
pays no attention: it is perfecting its walk.

When I reach the second field the lambs,
their mothers, aunties, sisters, cousins
funnel into a conspiracy and follow me.
When I stop: they stop.

I can’t catch them out, so I laugh
and they stare back indignantly
at a maniac, with no sugar beet
in her bag or grass in her pocket.

When I get to the last stile,
the whole herd crams against the fence,
like a street of diligent parents waiting
for their child to reach the corner

give one last wave and disappear
for a day.

-

p.m.
After realising I have nothing for them,
except a half-smoked cigarette,
they were abominably rude and ignored me
as I kicked the tops off the mole hills.

When I reached the top field
it started to hail, which is what happens
when you are feeling perfectly morose
and haven’t brought a waterproof.

I stood under the lie-down tree,
by the bridge I built from fallen branches.
One of the calfs came over and licked
my stonewashed knee and the cows

sighed deeply with me and we all stood
dripping and shivering and I was thinking
this could be a bus shelter in any city,
huddled with commuters at rush hour,

then the beige cow lifted her tail
and shat on her ankle.