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Bovine Musings

by James Walton (follow)
Cows mull the willow’s succulent secrets
they gather there in steamy wine bottle shade
murmuring in colours of cave paintings,
sharing lost tongues and hand gestures
shaking horns that no longer seek the hunter
chewing legends and talking over times,
of better hay when the clover came so swiftly
after the ice age of barren ancestry left them
domestic in the contained horizons of paddocks,
those sepia eyes so generous looking over my shoulder
coming out of an evening of hills
seeing me for the primitive carnivore I am.

My beautiful B5, or Willy to me, in 1991
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