From compartment windows

they were fake, too far away

to be real. Friesians, Shorthorns,

Angus: painted cows

 

in a book of fields –

while on the train I rampaged,

shuttling impatience

through pages and pages

 

of green. Unexpectedly,

we'd arrive and land in a world

where they moped.

The first day up, a drover,

 

I'd goad them on with a stick

then savour their warmth

at milking when packed

into pungent stalls,

 

where a white jet steamed

frothed up in a galvanized pail.

The fields outside

were full of their muck

 

in pats that were ringed

and perfect. Wherever

I ran, that muck

would cling to my shoes.