In Shape O Beast

 

In Shape O Beast

 

 

Oh, how foolish do those fears seem now,

brown cow?

 

The Friesian in the field is slow –

she lumbers towards the 5 barred gate

where too many hooves have clomped up mud

into such a swamp;

we can’t go where we’d go

or break a bale, straw the floor, offer feed

from the palm of an outstretched hand

where thick warm tongues

work to suck up seed.

 

You say: Oh, you’re always in love

with someone, but life’s late blooms

have carpeted the trees, the rooms -

let’s reach out for something to embrace,

grasp it before it’s too late,

look -  all around - warm faces

flushed in welcome, beckon us forth with glances

that speak of making hay with chances.

 

And can weak poor hearts resist

such unspoken given promises

of secret kisses, covert ecstasy, hidden trysts –

ancient as we are?

Oh, those looks she fires have travelled far

and wound every cell that kicks inside,

they shoot from the hip

taking aim with steady grip.

 

And there’s a winnock bunker in the East

where sits Old Nick -

in shape of beast -

lapping comfort crumbs from life’s feast.