The grass grows lush in this rain and with the dimming of the light the shadows move slow the wind lows among the dripping leaves and for the moment of a sunset on this day of all days I can feel the scented breath of cattle coming home.
I’m still following some prompts, but not posting them on the different sites. I’m finding I just don’t have the time to read and reciprocate to comments. This poem, a sonnet of sorts, was written for the earthweal prompt, a reminder that we’re coming up to Bealtaine.
In this meadow where only ghost cattle low, bright buttercups bow their golden heads, blue flax flowers mirror the pale May sky. In this meadow where only ghost cattle low, lush grass growing now is cropped by the deer, a jungle where pheasants and foxes peer through stalks and stems and flowered threads. There were cattle here once but now the hare, the fox, the badger, the rabbit and deer tread wary paths the night time; no snare is set in the grass, no traps to fear, beneath the hedge where the spindle trees grow, and the fire that’s lit on this clear spring night is for ghost cattle shades, the past’s swift-winged flight.