the cows move on
slipping a bit on the wet ramp. At last
they are all in and she slams the partition gate.
âOne more to come,â says Grunt, his face a blank
and out of the shed looms his Red Devon bull.
The truck rocks as he walks in, his head low,
the knock and echo of his hooves terrible,
sweat on his nose and shoulders and muscled flank.
Jo starts the truck, fighting something like horror,
and pulls away, wheels briefly adrift in the mire
only then daring to glance back at Grunt in the lane
staring at her, at the truck, hands loose at his sides,
getting smaller and smaller in her rear-view mirror.
Kingdom Come
At market the talk is all about Colin and his
six-month sentence suspended for two years
and the boy
and the other boys
Tom who took the tractor for a swim
Dick who fell in the sheep dip
Harry rolled flat by round bale hay
the wives who drown in grain silos
flailing in bullion like calves in a slurry pit
brothers winched away by an unguarded drive shaft
or last seen dancing on overhead power lines.
âCloser to thee, my Lord,â says Teague.
âSkip, trip or fall,â says Grunt.
Trapped by stacked material
Uncontrolled exposure to poultry dust
Manslaughter by gross negligence
âMeant the world to him, that boy,â says Teague.
They observe a minuteâs silence.
âAnd to top it all, heâs disqualified from holding a shotgun licence.â
Once Upon a Time in the West
As Jo hands an entry form to the market men
she clocks Grunt unloading fat lambs in the pennage.
Waiting to wash out, sheâs behind him in the queue,
parks alongside his Bateson, plotting a duel.
Two quid for the lad. She grabs the high pressure hose
and gets a squirt in quick while Grunt is still dozy.
Heâs right back at her, gets her full blast in the chest
then itâs back and forth like a Spaghetti Western
until Grunt surrenders, hands reaching for the sky,
Joâs barrel cocked at his groin and ready to fire.
The effect of Gruntâs smile wasnât part of Joâs plan
â Sedgemoor livestock market is no place for romance â
but when Grunt offers lunch âfor the sharpest shooterâ
Jo flushes bright red and finds herself strangely mute.
A Load of Old Bull
One deliberate hoof tests the ramp. Head low,
the bull shoulders out of the slant shadow,
sashays into the pen with a swagger,
muscled like a bovine Schwarzenegger,
and leans on the gate, enjoying the strain.
âSeven hundred quid,â says Grunt. âA bargain.
And if he brings me any sort of fight
heâll be off quicker than a brideâs nightie.â
In the late sun, Grunt and the bull glow red.
Midges dance a garland around their heads.
Driving home, Jo broods on the loading bay,
four blokes with sticks, the sellerâs cagey eye
and wonders what postscripts have been added
to the given pattern of this old bullâs blood.
New Blood
Grunt says he got him for a good price.
Jo says, âBuy cheap, buy twice.â
Grunt says, âBetter buy than borrow.â
Jo says, âBuy in haste, in leisure sorrow.â
Grunt says, âPedigree blood for pedigree seed.â
Jo says, âBetter a good bull than a bull of a good breedâ
and âMany a good cow hath an ill calf.â
Grunt says, âHave you seen his EBV percentiles graph?â
Grunt says he took a first at the County Show.
âHandsome is as handsome does,â says Jo.
Grunt says the vendor is switching to A.I.
Jo says, âHalf the truth is often a lie.â
Grunt says he covered fifty cows last year.
Jo says, âNaught so brisk as bottled beer.â
and âThey that promise quick, perform slow.
Speak as I find,â says Jo.
Shoot Supper
There have been two, maybe three, other men for Jo.
Sheâd say âmind your ownâ if you asked her who.
There have been two, maybe three, other women for Grunt
but not lately. He confronts