by Gillian Pasley | Poetry | Spring 2018
How now, brown cow, how
red the heavens streak at dawn how
shrill and warbled the rooster’s morning cackle how
the whole Earth now seems to vociferate in
anticipation of another morning broken.
How greener the pastures on each side from the last how
sweet a whiff of sunshine through the trees how
soft the fleece how fat the sow how
each day seems to slip through the slats
until the crickets peep and it’s moonlight on the
How black the night, how grave the vow, how
can you blame me, I mean really how—
can you possibly blame me, how one dark evening
fate stole through the slits while I slept still—
some old evil spirit, here to turn a good thing bad.