She wears green  

for the occasion, pressed tight against the carvery’s hot glass where loin and shank of this and that jostle for attention, glazed and glistening. Saliva on her chin…

She wears green - that same bright mix of weed and Gower grass where her lambs have fed and fattened to the perfect weight. So this is just the ticket after a busy morning herding, penning, marking - avoiding frightened eyes before the drive north. To the end of weaned lives in some Smethwick street where procedures aren’t always monitored. Knives in size order sharpened at the ready.‘I fancy the lamb,’ she says, rubbing a dried blood stain on her sleeve. ‘It looks so nice and sweet.’

‘Same for me,’ growls her husband. A blazered brick shit-house, licking his lips at the pale grey flesh and its jus spooling over his plate. At the stuffing, the veg, the whole of the Garden of Eden it seems, with a thick gravy lake cooling beneath its skin.

She wears green to reflect the fine spring. Is last in an undistinguished line of those gone before. Her concrete hair suggests someone not given to nightmares who can forget that slippery floor, the coppery smell and those she’d once bottle-fed, falling…

Such a pretty name on the label by her glass. In Saes it means ‘snow’ and she wonders while sawing away at her broccoli stalk, should the white stuff blow in from the east like last year, those mothers still bleating their loss will have to come in. And that costs…

She wears green for the occasion, places her cutlery neatly together, stands for the toast on a plated hip. A procedure unmonitored that has left her in pain. But not somuch that once back on that same mix of weed and Gower grass, she’ll be starting all over again…


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