Once more the dotted cattle
Move along the distant spit of land,
From left to right
In this early morning mist.
Later this evening
A slow return across their green stage,
Each cow and calf precisely lit
In the westering sunlight.
The great bull moving with them,
Bulking and content among his ladies
And his patchwork progeny.
Their movement seems as tidal as the river.
A rhythmic washing to and fro
Along the spit's green and narrow length.
Dark trees behind the cattle,
Gathered for the night
By a herdsman whose presence
Alone in the field,
Is enough to set them
On their evening journey
Homeward to the farm.
And in the distant, opalescent air,
White and pink houses
Like a child's cut-out picture book,
Centre on the towers and gleaming lighthouse
That seems the pivot for this evening world,
Where night overtakes each piece of scenery,
Slowly removing to the wings
The fading marsh and townscaped horizon,
A fretted darkness covering everything.
The land settling;
Full of the unmelodious, nightly chaos,
Waterborne and magically signalled
Into abrupt silence.
This wet world sleeping,
As the long, renewing hours
Bring us all to peace
And dreams.
From "A Kind Of Heaven" by Richard Maslen (click to go back).
