COWHAND  

Through the muck he ran,
Soft dung pats sucking
His rubber calves
To that wide mirror
Of sky grey water, and his cow
Heavy with milk.
He'd seen the pretty toy town train
All lit up
Fall like a dying firework
Into the threshing flood.
He pulled again, uncomprehending,
Calling his lover's name,
Rhiannon. Who gives the living sleep.
But now too deep
To wake the dead.
Small window corner above the torrent,
Frail, man - made,
A flimsy tomb
For those who'd paid half price
For the pleasure
Of its cold embrace.
A best nightdress folded
Round a pouch
Of lavender.
Fish food. Out of reach
To the propellered flock above
Scouring the shadows,
Hovering, stirring his hair
And haunting at night
His slurried sleep.

 

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