frost coats the grazed grasses
the beasts of the bush
nuzzle noses deep in the dig  
yanking roots with
the cool fresh blades  
leaving steaming dung
on the graying ground    
the slaughter waits patiently
in the hands of the shepherds
it will have its time,
once the soft wool is sheared,  
and the belly asks more fiercely
than the back, which will settle
for cotton, or rags from other seasons  
the children will watch, as  
the lambs are hung, the viscera
scooped onto the pasture pure  
none, young or aged, recall
the screams of the fallen,
the long lost armies,  
whose hot blood flowed
like ink from an eternal pen  
scribing swirling red tales on the turf  
grand lies the beasts would never know
nor the great sons  
who now shed the blood  
not for king and court  
but to sate the gut’s  
ceaseless growl