Pigs Poem by Les Littleford

It was a terrible sound

We had stopped for coffee
and heard
screeching, screaming, squalling

Pigs

The truck,
three tiers tall,
was parked in the main street.

Protruding from all levels
were
trotters, tails
snouts, flanks
pushing, twisting,
scrambling for space.

A nightmare mixture.

And the eyes.

Wild, wide, staring.

This was no farmyard rumble,
No boar exercising his authority.

This was naked,
primal
fear.

I was cold
horrified
ashamed.

We left
quietly
thoughtfully
without coffee.

Les Littleford 2/09/2013