The hill is grazed by a few, odd poppies

splashed diminutively. They are a slight abrasion of the earth,

a fostering of dainties.

Bulls mill among cows, cropped grass,

a hoof of acres, buttocks rumping off bark.

When I have gazed on bulls, a crop of cows, odd poppies,

the bull-necked people that I meet,

the bull of those vociferating cows, the wound of plastic flowers,

harbour a lovely settling of my eyes.

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I can begin to bear this daily press of animals,

a little grizzly myself.

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What do you think?

Written by Jonathan Finch