Ruby Reds don’t walk; they embark
gingerly freighted, on tip-toe cloven hooves,
lumbering beef larders of marbled meat
Soft-mouthed, loaded heads swing above russet, barrelled chests.
Blonde-swatched tails swish, merino-soft haunches
and backs, wide as farmhouse-tables.
Docile amber eyes, shadowed by blunt, tipped horns, meet mine.
Their curls, glinting auburn, rose and burgundy at sunset.
Among fragrant bluebells and felted, uncurling ferns,
haunting skylarks accompany their calm, ceaseless chewing.
I skirt a line of bulls, tenderly gorging,
like a muscular necklace of tawny boulders.
Oblivious of their future; until a bolt from the blue