Requiem

Pete Mullineaux

The cows have gathered in an adjacent field,
I can see their shapes in the moonlight –
a meeting of the tribes, they are here in their multiplicity;
black, brown, black and white – some all white,
like ghosts, or recent converts.
 
Just now I heard a moan from one of them
that had me awake as if I had been shot.
It’s the night before their calves are taken,
they know from the look in the farmer’s eyes.
They call him by name
although it sounds like ‘moo’ to us.
 
I listen at the window to their keening –
we make recordings of whales and dolphins,
say they are a higher species
as close to us as nature gets –
but the cows are singing in their camp,
refusing to be cattle
marking their loss
celebrating the grass
thanking the rain.
 
The females, even the males most of the time
are gentle, considerate, abiding.
 
But tonight the cows have run out of patience,
can ruminate no longer; they sing
their mass; make ready for battle,
tomorrow they will paint themselves red –
attack.