In the distance
ant-cows gather
big bellied with
tenderous aching,
in chorus of
expectancy;
the fondling care
of husbandry
calling
like a teasmaid
at dawn.
From here we
cannot
see their
brown-eyed souls
or smell their bosomy
warmth,
they are bottled
and homogenised
by space.
1 comment:
Keith so often the visual transports in your poems. You've done it again.
Post a Comment