I scare sheep
far too easily
to become
a true Welshman
Affinity with any
wandering mutton
does not seem
to suit me –
apart from that
solitary ewe
in a cold field
in Llandovery
Enough said
for now?
Tag: farming
Dairy Parlours
Sweet stinking cattle
of Brough Hill
our machinations
are latched on to you by
German engineering
sucking you near to dry
With such heat –
you should wear white –
this is now a foreign field
of burnt harvests
A limited release
of back catalogue
memories land me
among kids with Uzis
in Tel Aviv – then south –
to be met by my family
and dairy farming
without pastures
Words for Mud
We trampled under re-tugged hoods
across even wetter exposed ground
like low-eyed parlour-set cattle
both of us making that slab slurp
as we pulled our sucked heels
from immeasurable puddles
Stoach – was it uttered as mud
and air and boots glued? – stoach
and slab – discarded once-words
now rarely spoken – only by smeery
glazes – by worn pathways
There Wealden clay will complain
as hill-walked hours wear it away
Time will eventually reverse to tell
what truly lies beneath our feet
Then all our losses will be obvious –
no flights – no travel – no sinking islands
on TV – we are making errors here
Farming Today
Under Glynde’s grey turbine
I know I am irrelevant
It is as if my chest’s creaks
are now unsure ship timbers
set grinding by lifts and turns
of blown low pressures
Her blades swoon over us
in that signature revolution
She asks of me a greater effort
to stand for any time in her shadow
Can you find a name for her grab
and snaffle of another westerly?
Words hurt you – they are your
turned blades in your turned head
And this act of standing upright –
above Gote Farm – is my anchoring
on these Downs of compromises
made between giving and taking
An Argument
I met a rare squabble
of sparrows –
an old controverse
being lost to us
as we cut back
and square off
the litter-flowering
hedges of England
The Cows
Two good legs shunt the shed’s herd
of black and white hand-numbered hides
into the single storey milking parlour –
the stiff udders are washed and latched
to German engineering by Israeli hands –
We would pour the cold output into a jug
and cross the lava-hot tarmac on bare feet –
to then undress and take one long shower –
with the milk in our throats as a reward
for our hard-work and hard-fucking –
The daughters of my brother’s bovine care
look at me with unrecognizable stares
as they chew on the sweet feed at my feet –
They do not know of the kindness I showed
their forebears under these shaded beams
E170119
Tractor Histories
They were parked in two lines
but not quite furrow straight
We walked through the
static display of old tractors
I read out the name plates of
those dearly beloved brands
now green and red patinas
over mottled paint and flaking rust
Rested greased beasts – loved or kicked
– depending on the maintenance
But my youngest wanted shade
and showed no interest in such things
MIKE BELL | 10,000 Poems 