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Simon Fletcher

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Dancing at Cowhill

For Louise Short

  Empty slots you tried to fill,
to preserve space, give meaning
to their short lives, put words into their
silent mouths. They left prints,
  looked with sad eyes.

  Plastered on walls now,
these hoofcasts are memories,
the horns of a dilemma, for some,
sepia negatives, fading finger
  prints, lost ballet pumps.

*

  The crazy dance of BSE
may well have done for them,
if these gentle beasts had lasted,
if they hadn’t already tangoed
  blood dark abattoirs.

  ‘You put your left foot in,
your left foot out, in, out, then
shake it all about.’ A hokey cokey
in concrete shoes. That’s
  what it’s all about.

*

  A hill of cows dancing
themselves to dust; smoke
rising from pyres, burnt relics,
smouldering in the fields;
  ashen death-dance

  of our design;
our laughing barbecues.
Among the burgers and the buns
we stuff our faces; mouth trivia,
  stand, feet apart.

 

Page(s) 19

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