Late summer evening
The cattle of recollection
Breach the field’s brow
Low-strung skulls nodding
To the gentle pressing ahead
Through grass studded with
Dandelion and shabby dock
Their broad flanks warm
To the amorous air
Dragonflies no less
Along the river’s bank
And somewhere behind
The farmer (he is out of sight)
Calls out, bemused
To find his cattle
Gone from the gate
The place they gather
To receive their
Every evening meal
It is to you they come
Just this once
Lowing and subdued
Advancing over
The ancient geography
Of the rutted hill
To springtime
Where you lie wakeful
In a borrowed flat
In Bermondsey Street
Waiting to count them in
Comments
jennifer | March 17, 2009 - 13:06
Did this happen to you?! Or is it a dream?
My Uncle once had the police helicopted out for two escapee llamas someone was keeping in his field...they haused havoc in Inverness high street, apparently!
J x
Nicola6 | March 17, 2009 - 18:19
Sadly no cows left in Southwalk (except diced up at Borough Market). The poem is part recollection of a countryside childhood, part comment on the strange consolation of animals. Nostalgia mixed up in a bit of mystery.