Cows at Nunraw Abbey

In another corner of this field
cows stand in rural solemnity –
their bodies deep in fog.
heads like fields of angel fish
turn and swim at me
dragging carcasses out the mist
transubstantiation:
transfiguration of field and fence.

You are waiting for our petitions
silent and calm.

Bull scratches his neck
on a drystane dyke.

But walls of doubt have set
about the Bull.

They arrive and back off breathless
on jets of steam coming out like
the holy spirit

like I was God.

Their lips no prayers can utter
no suppliant psalm.

One big wet plastic nose
sniffs,
trying to read my smells
sacred heart eyes.
But I am not it.

We have made them all too weary
with long delay yet how can I let them down
when they’re gagged and tagged
and slaughterhouse bound.
You should waste not in selfish weeping
one precious day.


      Des Dillon

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