Unusually for June the day had
a single shadowless skim-milk pallor
under a hazy beam of shifty cloud.
The huffle-whiffle of sudden ground gusts
lifted the sweet-and-sour swathes of tossed
hay.
Geese tootle-blabbed by the slubbery pond.
With faintly a friggle a heron
gullocked down a fat frog.
In the hollow farsed-fat grizzle-grey sheep
grazed puckles of pool-slush green grass.
Luke sat on his gray Ferguson
His face was set like the tip of an iceberg
He shouldered the weight of a solid thought
He had to share with me.
In China
his vegetables in the local market,
always carried home in his hand
a big heavy bucket full of dung.
He divined that humanity feeds on itself;
Its dunghill is its daily sustenance.
The hook of a hawk slashed into a spiral
down to wing-clapping green-necked
woodpigeons.
The monotony of milk waiting in creamery
cans
Glazed the look of the day into a smooth
surface.
‘Bad News’ Sam stopped to say Farley’s
youngest
had been kicked in the head by a horse.
His fleer-lipped flew-cheeked gargoyle face
pursed.
No nature shone from his miser-purse eyes.
His stretched leg eased the creases in his
pants.
He had delivered the bad news first.
He asked ‘How many beasts went down in the
test?’
He cycled off holding a swede by the greens
-
Robespierre displaying a guillotined head.
I was conscious of a gnaw in my belly.
And the hum-bizz of a bike of bumble bees.
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