We caught him in the byre,
lightly bobbing
in a Barbour jacket
on the pigeon spattered floor.
Speakers mashed in his lugholes,
we hid and watched his shaking,
almost dying,
as his whole body hummed,
pouring out the water
I got covered in shite
laughing ass-backwards,
not even a barn dance Tom?
he turned to us, red-cheeked, stung
fuck the lot of ya,
oogling beavers, go eat dung
this cattle dance
makes the milk taste sweeter
he waved the cow pump
like a conductor.
I suppose it was madness
that overtook us —
Friday mornings
and that untouchable feeling,
opening the pens
and weirdly shuffling
to the bassy free-form lowing,
the brushing of straw was almost a beat.
We swayed into work, waggle dancing
amongst the Holstein, floating
between their black-white shirts
each adding her note to the next.
Rocking, all of us, lullabied.
Life is easy work sometimes,
I've not known many so sweet
