To the bull nothing makes sense beyond
his wives, his children. And grass.
The grass changes. He doesn't know why.
The wives too at times. The children are there
and not there. He knows the smell of the byre,
of those who feed him. All else is mystery,
witness these strangers stumbling over tussocks
at the back of his herd. His warning bellow
didn’t stop them. He turns his great head
Turns back to the grass but can't settle.
Turns his head again. Wants things to stay as they are.