Memory - Poem by Seamus Hogan
It must have been this month of the year,
November, because I wore boots of rubber
and the cows wore boots of mud.
There wasn't a lot of milk to be milked
but still it had to be done,
a dropp for the tea. Mastitis.
Warm hindquarters in the draught
white hyperbolas in the dark
methodical munching of hay-
ah, what a way
to have grown up,
what a way.
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