The Gathering

The Gathering

The oily rags of scattered clouds
Left smears across the cardboard sun.
Our rucksacks clattered to the ground
Our long-haul morning hike now done.
But shadows quickly grew around us
In a dark and deathly crescent,
And looking up we saw a row
Of sad-faced cows with quite unpleasant
Glints of malice in their eyes.
Drooling, snorting, watching gently,
Staring at us, mesmerised,
With yellow eyeballs fixed intently
On our saucepans. What they wanted
Only bovine minds could know,
But the brown one in the rear was
Dragging off our camping stove.

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