I water the cabbages
the dog runs about mad
as I walk back and forth to the blue barrels
filling Gran’s grey watering can.
In college I learnt how to depreciate …
I wouldn’t dare do such a thing.

The caterpillars squatting on the cabbages coil
as the water rains down upon them,
followed by my thumb.
(I keep meaning to write that poem.)

19th of June; 9:45pm —
I have one more job to do
and I will do it practising a few reels.
My fingers do not need my eyes
so make myself a ****** be
in the woods where they can’t see me —
the snakes.

Years and years and years
of cleats traversing the field below
have to left pairs of ungelating snakes
slithering towards the four gates in the field.
Soon I pan to install a 5th
and this worries me,
never having hung one before; plus
what if the snakes bite me. Or worse
I succeed.

For now I fret, leering towards the bull,
I want to see him *** —
#414, she’s still not in calf.
If she repeats again, it’s goodbye for him.
But the *****’s just grazing. Swishing at flies,
periodically ****** and poops.
Is my playing distracting him?

I suppose … we’re all entitled
to a night off.

A Galway and Suffock ram.
Both employed on our farm
to ****.

When the midwife is due
Larry and Barry are left to themselves
and 2 in to Alpha doesn’t go.

Over the years, I noticed,
every business blow
reduced blood
from torrent to trickle.

When Larry developed meningitis
he was taken into care,
Barry had a look
that struck me dumb.

I can never be able to tell Barry
I was there
when life left his body.

A mountain crumbling into nothing.

I found a ewe today,
stiff as a stone.
Her maturing lamb, just lying there.
Massey Ferguson Undertakers remove,
as the lamb; busy, jumping around with the rest.

The flock is rotated between OBGYN,
buttercup-ed fields, the barber to your dinner plate.
Still, on cold nights and wet days,
underneath the ash, the lamb looks out —
heavy, like the leaves — sort of
still hoping;

Valentines Day — 349,440 hours
I’ll have been with you then.  
Since that first second
I became a fisherman.
A hungry fisherman.
Casting my nets into the empty sea.
Nets full of holes

that I get stuck in.
Too hungry to express
how full you make me.
But I promise you this —
I will learn how to write poetry
so I can.

Reality dawns beneath
the drawn purple drapes.
Day creeps along the carpet.
Cruel light divides us equally.
Vampires — the night is ours

I still have time —
it’s not yet now.
Watching you sleep,
I start a new collection of poetry
called Pi.

i

It took three of us to pull her out
onto steel-float-finished concrete —
where her mother; BNNZ-0031U
fell from GXA339605 —
a little black Limousin heifer
later to be Christened
IE18576-0426.
Shortened to Patch.

Like my nephew Jamie
he’ll never know dial-up.
Imagine … I lived 27 years B.FB.
(Before Facebook.)


ii

If a cow calves down successfully —
that’s no guarantee you’ll end up with a cheque —
they’re moved to the postnatal paddock.
Almost the furthest field back,
gives junior a peak at the future fields
they’ll someday graze.
Provided they live long enough.

One year, the tour had entered the 3rd Hill Field
which has 8 gates, the cow knew which one.
I was only here to open and close the gates.
So she checked her mirrors
then indicated left. Migratory.
Junior, on-the-other-hand
didn’t quite know what to do
so floored it; head-on
into un-suspecting gate.

It was like in the cartoons,
something would fall on someone’s head,
they’d walk away like an accordion.

I nearly died laughing
5000 times funnier than castrating lambs
I swear to God.


iii

They came into my world and leave
from the shed

I like to think that there word for the shed,
when translated would mean pain —
between being de-horned; castrated;
belted with sticks; stobbed with needles
and yucky medicine rammed down their throats.  
Then weaned: no more mommy from now on.

Let back out, having weathered their 1st winter.
Yearlings; grazing different field.
Their 2nd summer at grass — according to the book —
is where they’ll experience Compensatory Growth.
When the gate up to the Rock is closed,
that’s the end of the road for them.
We finish the cattle here.
Well used to gates by then.

That’s all it is really; a series of galvanised gates
opening and closing in conjunction
with a selected grazing rotation.
One cycle around 62.4 hectares.


iv

There’s only one reason
cows are moved in with the cattle —
well, yea there’s the other reason too,
but primarily —
to keep Romeo away from Juliet.

At this age, there elders are generally knackered,
probably mastitis in more than one ***.

In the Beef Book in college,
cull cows are referred to as ‘canners’
as that’s where most of them end up —
in tins of dog food.


v

It was 17 years ago, Patch ran into that gate.
I’ve seen her go from bullied springer to bully.
She’s taking a trip with the cattle today.

I wonder did she know
that IE18576-0851 was hers
from last year. I like to think so.
And everyone of her offspring,
all lived to be killed.
Only space for that in my notebook.

Mart starts at 10, it’s 8.30am
waiting for Lynsky.
All my years loading cattle,
it’s never once been raining.

And calves in fields over
contently ****.

In this sunny meadow sheep bleat.
Today is my birthday.
The evening breeze
blows out my candles.
The sheep still bleat.

Before I go,
each guest will get some cake–
rude not to share.
Five pieces I will cut:
the sun, the wind, the sheep
and me.
The last piece I will keep
for the moon.