Children

Df7ZXsbUEAAkI-5

[Image- painting – by Robbin T Milne – with permission]

Children

No matter how tall the leaves of grass grow,
the snow will fall again on the field.
The rabbits are running now,
nettles feasting on sunshine,
and the bees are minding their own business,
somewhere else.

No matter my friend has lost his friend,
there will be friends again.
There is a cancer in the fields,
long shadows over hedgerows,
birds I cannot name sing without melody,
and life growing underfoot.

How are the children now? Who are the authorities?
Are there any youngsters without tears flowing,
without tears repressed, stifled?
There are shards on the road, and dust,
buttercups and dock leaves,
foxgloves, and infants on the roads.

An iron gate opens,
an iron gate shuts,
a horse looking for attention,
a gray standing still,
maybe there are fresh eggs.
Why were the children born?

There is horseshit everywhere I look
Clean it up, someone – I’ve said enough.
God bless America,
The horses have bolted,
who’s in charge here?
The leaves of grass are growing,

whether we like it or not.

In Myrtleville one Sunday morning 

 



In Myrtleville one Sunday morning

Two men in green galoshes plodded thru blinding mud and glistening puddles as friesians foraged for food in a field by the sea.

Electrical wire carried current to discourage the herd from wandering.

The men got there and one changed the boundaries so the cows could eat tufts of grass.

Who doesn’t trundle through dung & slurry on a track to better pasture ?

Who doesn’t push towards others who scrabble for scarce supplies to keep them going until the weather turns and growth resumes.?

Who doesn’t hope for someone to move goalposts and let you stock up for the next bit of the journey from birth to dust?

It’s worth watching mud, cattle and men in sunlight – anytime.