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.
I can begin to bear this daily press of animals,
a little grizzly myself.