Hathor

Life was ordinary then, and I was
ordinary too, a kid. And the cows
were ordinary though each was
a totally different breed, unique,
or no breed at all, picked up
here and there, a mish-mash.
But each had her name, and I
had one too though sometimes
I took theirs, Liz or Vi, Cushie,
Hackie, I had many to choose from,
and sometimes I ate what they ate,
sweet grass stems, or cubed cow-cake,
rich and oily, delicious, and
sometimes I drove them from
byre to burn, walking behind
their hammock-hips, their
easy functions, when summer
nights still depended on stars
which gave us our first gods,
cows and bulls, and which
I could still make out in their
blue-black pastures and watch
until the bombers came for
the mines and shipyards.
After that, milk tasted of fish
and I spat it out for the cows
were now cooped up and fed
fish heads. But they still weren’t
safe and I would seldom again
see wide-horned Hathor without
seeing her fields torn apart
and stars shunted aside by
searchlights or blotted by barrage
balloons in nights of sirens and
flames, pummeled by shrapnel.