Market Day
"Foghorns in the field, Nanna".
The boy woke me from my nodding
so I would know and fill my ears with cotton wool.
For forty years the old man has taken
calves to market come September.
And for twenty-five I've stopped the sound.
Cows crying sound like foghorns the boy said.
They did, so: low and deep, their loss filled our
ears for three days and nights.
Then stopped. The mourning over.
Early on they were no bother.
I even watched as man and dog
separated calves from cows,
to the trailer and away.
Their pain was nothing to me,
until the war. And my own lad gone.
So quick it was: He hopped the bus,
blew me a kiss and turned away.
It was market day and the cows bellowed
for the soft rough tongues on teats;
Their udders sore and full of milk not taken.
That day I heard them.
And my keening mixed with theirs
to fill the fields and valley, echo off the mountains
and float out to sea.
Since then, it is the cotton wool
that keeps me sane. The old man knows
and stays away until my weeping's done.
Then, he makes the tea,
touches my bowed shoulder with one
gnarled hand and with the other, gently removes
the cotton for another year.
"Foghorns in the field, Nanna".
The boy woke me from my nodding
so I would know and fill my ears with cotton wool.
For forty years the old man has taken
calves to market come September.
And for twenty-five I've stopped the sound.
Cows crying sound like foghorns the boy said.
They did, so: low and deep, their loss filled our
ears for three days and nights.
Then stopped. The mourning over.
Early on they were no bother.
I even watched as man and dog
separated calves from cows,
to the trailer and away.
Their pain was nothing to me,
until the war. And my own lad gone.
So quick it was: He hopped the bus,
blew me a kiss and turned away.
It was market day and the cows bellowed
for the soft rough tongues on teats;
Their udders sore and full of milk not taken.
That day I heard them.
And my keening mixed with theirs
to fill the fields and valley, echo off the mountains
and float out to sea.
Since then, it is the cotton wool
that keeps me sane. The old man knows
and stays away until my weeping's done.
Then, he makes the tea,
touches my bowed shoulder with one
gnarled hand and with the other, gently removes
the cotton for another year.