Grass is a constant when you have livestock. there’s always either too much or not enough of it. Recently, thoughts of grass and hay became a poem.
Spread thin over damp Autumn canvas
Like emerald velvet.
Huddled, hugging frozen soil.
Moist stalks. Sparse grey light.
Olive arms bend to wind’s will,
Taller, taller, fast as blinking.
Camouflage for knees, hooves, tail tips.
Cut down. Prone. Slain victims.
Fades. Dries. Golden stems.
Bashed. Raked. Mounds in rows.
Sucked through steel.
Spat out. Strung in.
Lines like soldiers.
burnt to dust.