Ida M. Mills
Requiem
Beauty is fodder for the cattle,
Proud head, tall shining stem.
A lark’s song, swift blade’s whirr and rattle
Their only requiem.
So you lie there, my lovely grasses,
Winnowed relentlessly
For cattle’s need. When summer passes,
And snow falls silently
And I, in dusk of cold December
Feel soft hay-scented breath
Of beasts warm-stalled, I shall remember
This June day, and your death.
Page(s) 6
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