Friesians lined the field’s iron fence.
We sensed their gob-stopper eyes
tracking our tears along the bitter
path from the new church to the old;
through gates, over the cattle grid,
straight on to the ancient graveyard
with its lichened headstones sinking
into the moss. The cows were still.
The cows were silent: no stamping
of cloven hooves, no jostling for the
best viewing spot along the railings;
just solemn stares and warm breath,
belching and rising into the cold air.
Dorothy Burrows spent her early years living in a farmhouse by the sea . She now lives, writes and walks on the edge of the beautiful North Wessex Downs but still remembers and misses that childhood landscape of moss and marshland. Her poems have appeared in various journals including The Alchemy Spoon, Dust Poetry, The Ekphrastic Review, Spelt and Wales Haiku Journal.