Peaceful Friends

It reminds you of the salt lick
a sordid pink brick always laid
by the drinking trough - you've
seen some. Bathtubs - improbable
colours among the grass. Some
concrete coffins for rectangular
children - all slime at the edges
all growing beards of slime.
But the cattle didn't seem to mind.

When you held the upper rail
they licked you too, your hands
their cat tongues, rasps
their eyes beautiful and innocent
you won't forget the smell
of their breath, warm and oaty
or the sharp tang of their shit
which still means country. Their
notrils bloomed mushrooms of steam
on winter days. They were your
peaceful friends.

Now sex. That same pinkness
the sort that shouldn't be on show
the groove you wear in each other
with your tongues, your eyes
your breath. But this is anything
but peaceful, anything but friends.