Not a poem, but probably more beautiful. Francesca had her baby goat at 5:30am this morning.
corona has left meslow to think, slow to actslow to write – a 50kg bag of grainthree times the weight is was beforeand all the while the planet is hurtlingtowards our own inevitability so much fasterthan most of us can breathe through and francesca the goat laboursthrough the bright sky nightsecond of september and perfectly…
there is no talking as it would break the spell and wake serena who sleeps with woolly breaths, her head on my shoulder on a slow autumn afternoon. sewing scissors in hand i free the goat from the pile of curls, gathering the fleece for winter spinning
by the time we woke half-light christmas morning, baby Rain had been lost to the night. drag marks from where she slept to where we found her, swift neck kill and part eaten speak of caracal – big enough to steal a half grown goat too small to lift her dead-weight over fences. and our…