By Glen Wilson

 

Sixteen head of cattle march 

two abreast, heavy and shuffling.

We hold the birch, the baton 

but don't often make them sing.

We can measure the air, raise

noses, inhale the seasons onrush,

muddy the path to the next graze

but it will have grown back; slush

to solid green for the spring reverse.

We stay close to the water sources,

know where to divine answers to thirst.

Lords race past into the future on horses,

hustle from Motte to stone Keep,

to leave these walls of inheritance

and English titles. When they sleep

do they know their legacy is a glance?

this land is but a painting in constant thrall,

peace is only found in slow steady footfall.

---

 

Glen Wilson lives in Portadown, Co Armagh with his wife Rhonda and children Sian and Cain. He has been widely published having work in The Honest Ulsterman, Foliate Oak, Iota, Boyne Berries, North West Words, Snapdragon Journal, Blue Max Review, The Screech Owl, Yellow Chair Review, A New Ulster and The Interpreters House amongst others. In 2014 he won the Poetry Space competition and was shortlisted for the Wasafiri New Writing Prize. He was runner up in the Glebe House Harmony Trust poetry competition in 2015. His work also appeared in the 2015 Making Memories Anthology and in The Stony Thursday Book 2015. He is currently working on his first collection of poetry.