The cows were posing for a photograph

when they left off eating. I herded them

out of their vacancy, mud slapping at

their heels. The day was Christmas cold, burning

red in the west; birds, going home,

silhouettes

The one tree for a mile looked petrified.

You couldn't stand the loneliness of the field.

Your craving was the rush hour and from the dawn

we squabbled like gulls over seed: the

scarecrow

a distant spectator in the window,

who you'd always point at and say that's you.

I'm glad you went. There's room to rest

my legs

and when the fire's warming my backside,

I suck on humbugs that my auntie sent.

Geoffrey Loe, Shirley, Southampton