To the Highland Cow…

Sep 30

It was your horns that I saw first

keeking over the hawthorn hedge -

keratin curlicues - brackets -

black against the hard, pewter sky.

You were static, but for breath that

plumed like smoke from raindrop nostrils.

Though eyes were lost in ginger fringing,

I felt your stare. You sized me up -

a nothing in a pea green coat,

too slight to skewer, not worth the puff.

Tossing your head, you huffed a snort,

at a pink skinned parenthesis

in your ancient realm, and rubbed your

rusty rump with the point of your horn.

(Shortlisted for The Soutar poetry prize and first published in Coin Operated Press’s poetry zine)

Axial Tilt