His days are the fields his cattle graze,
the years run from under his feet in meadows
of primrose cowslip meadowsweet fireweed: the months flying
till once again pools of sunshine, daffodils, defy February gales.
His evenings are the savage streets of New York, Los Angeles,
where he dodges bullets stumbling down fire escapes,
slips in slicks of blood running into dark alleys
then he’ll drink a cup of cocoa before flicking the world to darkness.
On a Sunday morning he drives the tractor into town for mass
and he’ll chat an hour or two over a pint in his local;
when he wipes the Guinness from his lips and walks out the door,
he returns to his days, the fields where his cattle graze.
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