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when the two hooves
    framing the stubby snout had been poised to dive
    for hours from the womb’s brutal heave upon heave
    and this endless standing up and lying down.
    As her fight ebbed we tied calving ropes to the hocks
    and braced ourselves for the damp slab of shadow,
    the lilac gums and tongue,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â then the dross, the dreck,
    fine veins spidering the caul, the flies a mob,
    we two tramping down the hill, and a desultory cow
    alone in the dark.

Red Rosette
    Third at the Royal Cornwall, second at Devon County Show,
    she was our first cow, and every inch the star.
    She arrived to the wild applause of heavy rain,
    mud sluicing the lane like a red carpet.
    In the field she was best against spring grass,
    showing off her coat of burnt sienna or deep rose,
    her eyes saying “What goes on behind the scenes
    to create a look like this, darling, none of you know.”
    She was complicated. Pregnancies came and went.
    Then last year a caesar, which almost lost us the vet.
    We turn it this way and that but come back to the fact
    that whatever she is, Aileen isn’t a pet.
    Now she sashays out of the stock box and into the race,
    up through the metal gates and into the ring
    where she circles, once, then looks for the brightest spot
    (neck long, chest out, butt tight, stomach in).
    Bidders crowd the bars like paparazzi.
    Aileen swaggers and poses. What she doesn’t see
    is her weight in kilos on the digital display.
    As she raises her chin and pivots – one, two, three –
    I know she is telling herself, “Come on girl, you got
    third at the Royal Cornwall, second at Devon County Show,
    surely this is a first. Now, turn with the hip, slow,
    and point me towards the judge with the red rosette.”

Handshake
    No wonder our sheep held still, seeing how his hands shook
    as he hooked a moccasin over each foot with the one,
    gripped at the greasy body of the clippers with the other.
    And when he raised an arm to show he was ready for another
    or reached behind him to yank on the string of the clicker
    or handed me a fleece still warm from its owner
    to skirt and roll and tie, and tuck into our woolsack.
    After we’d helped him pack the portable rig back on the trailer,
    and patched up the handful of nicks on our shorn flock
    he took a mug of tea in the yard and spoke of the old times,
    two-month tours shearing a hundred a day or more
    eating lutefisk and dumplings in the crinkled fjords,
    the dogs backing the sheep, each shed as big as a Devon field.
    And evenings roistering in the bars, not to mention the maids.
    How the smell of sheep dip sank deep to the bone.
    Then he folded our cheque inside one corrugated palm,
    and corralled my small hand in the other. None of us knew
    how much of his handshake was thanks, how much tremor.

The Deal
    I was ready to trade
    the farm, the barns, some mediocre land,
    with this moneybags London dude.
    So we stood in the yard old-style
    about to shake hands on the deal
    our fingers just microns apart when the first
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â tile
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â fell.
    I saw doubt on his face, in his mind,
    but too late to check the momentum of his hand
    and I grabbed it and held on hard
    as the crack in the barn wall yawned
    and the slate rubble started to slide
    and he saw in my eyes
    spring grass too late for a hungry beast,
    summer sheep festooned with flies,
    autumn keen to surrender the year’s lease
    and winter’s lonely expanse,
    the only noise
    the strangled klaxon call of the wild goose.
    I shook his hand – once – and said, “Fact,
    in these parts this is a contract,
    big shot,”
    and with the help of my Holland & Holland side-by-side
    I welcomed him to my world.
    After all, what’s a man worth if not his word?

Viaticum
    When one arrives at the pearl-grey galvanised