On the Town Moor the butchers keep their cows,
A healthy hospice near the abattoirs.
Something is strange here, but they calmly browse,
Flicking flies with the nameplate in their ears,
And ruminate without conclusion, till
I cross the skyline.
In my grey and blue
They recognise me on the man-made hill
And give a low, surprised, ancestral moo,
Wildly start up on high-heeled feminine feet,
And run to kiss me with a clumsy joy.
Their eyes, like goddesses’, sadden when we meet:
I’m not their farmer, nor his bovine boy.
But still they stare, incredulous, in a trance:
Something has come again ... A second chance ...
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