Cold cows
collect the rain
that slips through
the steel skies,
while they eat
the quickly fading green
of grass,
grass turning red.

Beyond the fields
stands the edge of trees,
like stubborn skeletons
refusing to fall,
turning loose the last
of their brown and cracked flesh
only grudgingly,
one piece at a time.

And beyond the trees
rise the steeples,
surrounded by their testimonies
of remembrance,
strewn with the brightly coloured plastic
that patiently waits,
waits to be hidden by the snow.

November 1987