Thursday, 19 July 2018

A poem by Kitty Coles


for Stella

The goats always come to us,
sooner or later, if we stand long enough
calling to them. They range themselves
along the fence’s edge and, stony-eyed,
stare out at us and wait. The wires buzz,
waspish. Their horizontal pupils,
on those pale irises, meet ours unblinking.

We have nothing for them.
They realise it slowly and begin to bend
to crop at the grass, or stretch
on hindlegs to tear down
the yellow flowers of the broom and gorse.
Their teeth rip crisply.

Once, we watched two bucks fight,
clashing their horns,
with sounds like dry bone banging
on dry bone,
their curled beards wagging,
hooves tumbling the dust.
The others didn’t raise their heads to look.

Kitty's poems have been widely published in magazines and anthologies. She was joint winner of the Indigo Dreams 2016 and her debut pamphlet, Seal Wife, was published in 2017.

No comments:

Post a comment