Cows, sock-deep in mud, wait patiently in the ‘down-by’ field,
heavy with milk yield, heads veiled in wet mist of their own
breath. An early morning fog drifts along the lane from the farm,
sifts the clanks, barks and spluttering generator that join the cow-chorus.
It’s a late autumn this year, leaves slow to burn, turn and fall,
sun still warming days; but the birds know the cold will come.
Winter will soon burst, do its worst and only plodding cows
will stand by the gate and wait, because they must.
The farmer’s wife rolls, as she always does, into the warm space,
the place her man leaves as he heaves up trousers, braces,
jacket and goes to meet the cows, greet them by name,
pat their rumps with horny hands, whistle up the dog.
Another November morning, another milking, another day
with a pattern set by others’ needs, ankle-deep in mud.
And yet, like the fitting of the final piece in a jigsaw,
he finds comfort in the clunk of the gate behind the last cow
and the expectant ‘huff?’ of the dog who has done her job
as well as any of us could, would, at this grey hour in November
in the fog and the mud, before breakfast.