Rosie

There's a stirk fallen from the cliff
to the shelf of bedrock by the river.
The smashed contraption of its body
bleeds a little, one eye stares at the sky
with a look of almost surprise.
Already it stinks.

The land's too steep for a tractor,
the carcass too heavy for the few of us,
so you bring down Rosie from the luxury
of easy grazing. Your pleasure
at finding her work seems matched
by something in her gait,
the shiver of her flanks, the bob and shake
of her head as you fix the collar.

We tie the rope-ends to the beast's legs
and Rosie pulls, hooves gouging
steep peaty ground, an eagerness
you have to check so the deadweight
comes up evenly, doesn't snag
on an overhanging branch or swing
lop-sided under a rocky sill,
but eases gently over the cliff's lip.

You let her have her way then
and I'm that close I can recall even now
the piss and oatmeal smell,
those sweating buttocks, the pistons of her legs,
the startling energy of life at work,
pulling its counterweight uphill.

© Mike Barlow