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Something
inspires the only cow of late
To make no more of a
wall than an open gate,
And think no more of
wall-builders than fools.
Her face is flecked with
pomace and she drools
A cider syrup. Having tasted
fruit,
She scores a pasture withering to the root.
She runs from tree to tree where lie and sweeten
The
windfalls spiked with stubble and worm-eaten.
She
leaves them bitten when she has to fly.
She bellows
on a knoll against the sky.
Her udder shrivels and
the milk goes dry.
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