Let there be life.
But Dad said that cow has mastitis.
The vet injects a liquid,
may as well be Holy Water.
Just keep an eye on her calf she says.
The calf’s still inside her he says.
Two days later she aborts
on the short scalp in a mucky field.

Smooth, not a single hair,
yet curled into the
distinctive red Limousin bull
it would have been.
No time for pity,
jobs to finish.

Toss the calf, by now
a half-eaten breakfast roll,
over the wall–
slips into a crack.
Sorry little man,
you don’t get to be born.