Cows Poem by David Cooke

From compartment windows
they were fake, too far away
to be real. Friesians, shorthorns,
angus: painted cows

in a book of fields -
while on the train I rampaged,
shuttling impatience
through pages and pages

of green. Unexpectedly,
we'd arrive and land in a world
where they moped.
The first day up, a drover,

I'd goad them on with a stick
then savour their warmth
at milking when packed
into pungent stalls,

where a white jet steamed
frothed up in a galvanized pail.
The fields outside
were full of their muck

in pats that were ringed
and perfect. Wherever
I ran that muck
would cling to my shoes.