The bar of the Red Lion

A malformed lamb, oppressed in a box,

is touched by drunks, passing their love

over a soft white head; it’s not a hoax

when you see his earlobes twitch and move.

I am alone, I am a stray.

I can no longer see the sky.

Into your senses only today.

I’m born and soon I’ll die.

He rises, tries to seek out grass

but legs collapse and down he slides

into paper, cardboard, plastic, pass

me a pint I’ll keep him alive.

I am alone, I am a stray.

I can no longer see the sky.

Into your senses only today.

I’m born and soon I’ll die.

It seems like, if we keep on drinking,

an invisible friend will join the round;

supping, sloshing, slurp, not thinking

it’s late, here comes the ground.

I am alone, I am a stray.

I can no longer see the sky.

Into your senses only today.

I’m born and soon I’ll die.

Shepherds suggest ‘knock his head’,

farmers nod – an old debate

and when I shuffle off to bed;

the session’s done, lights out, goodnight.

Romancing a Pot Belly Sow

Black eyes are sublime, hooded by frayed ears,

as if peering through a shaman’s comb;

dissecting and blurring

everything changes,

behind her veil, her curtain.

Back-hair is a springy hedge

and, every time a person whispers,

she turns to listen;

more inquisitive than most

who lay and snort in the sun.

Front legs are pretty as a ballerina,

delicate and curvy,

on point. Her face,

elongated, has that quality

of a knowing smile

beneath a tasteful snout,

a bit like flexible hose;

short and smooth,

snuffling like a snorkel:

so sweet, so fat, so slow.

Arucis church

A church with shabby overcoat;

made of breezeblock, cinder-faced and grey.

Barred and locked.

Locked and barred.

Litter bins around are empty

and butterflies sustain themselves by

floating to a tree, then a bush;

creating, probing, fluttering.

Me, I pray for sleep, bored,

while, southerly, a clutch of concrete mixers churn

and nearby little finches sing and flitter round. Thank the Lord.

Farmers

Rough hewn, the men who turned this land,

who milked the sea, who fished the air,

who stacked up walls that soon contain

a farmer’s heart, a farmer’s fire.

Preposterous, an angry moor

transformed to fields of friendly hay;

to trim a beard of barleycorn

and lead his cows to school each day.

Preposterous to grow his bairns

by raking silver from the sea

or netting birds that laugh too loud

and hares that leap like butterflies.

Rough hewn, a face that falls to west:

his body leans against a wall

and whistles every tune he knows.

The point of rest? So he can toil.