Cows (For The Late Great, Tom Moore) Poem by MARINA GIPPS

Look up at the clouds, sweet sorrow,
on this nice day, and think
of the blackness staying
past overnight.

Black cows, we've tipped you.
We've watched you die.
Age ten, age eleven-forever.
Some memories must wither,
Black cows...

Beyond the moon,
there are no cows
and if there were
we could not touch them.
Over that slight fence,
we pushed them, then ran.

Let me tell you, sweet sorrow...
Beyond the moon, there are no cows.
They die in pastures near my home.
And there's a fence few cross,
only to regret,
for the grass grows wild
as we graze.