Outside, flocculent clouds huddle in the sky
like sheep, the midnight starlight mostly
hidden behind their drenched coats;
the empty hills, and
inside, little grey sisters huddle too,
enjoying shelter from the storm, their respite
temporary;
beneath them, the roots of the slaughtershed
have begun to move.
Their windpipes will be cut soon
like whistle valves - hot
steam sputtering out, clumping in the air
like crimson scud.
All day,
the sky has been in gradual stages
of blackening, and finally, now,
it’s here.
The hollowness of evening has shrunk
into everything -
the clank of a bucket,
the roiling of peat mosses,
hollow bleating, the wind bleeding
through the eaves, and
meathooks on their long chains, rattling;
at these lofty altitudes, they remind me
of the rusty red hand of Damocles, passing
over the heads of Dolly and her sisters, casting
a shadow.
They remind me,
at these lofty altitudes,
of gently swinging bones.
