Poem: ‘At the Butcher’s’
Patrick Cotter, 19 October 2017
The sheep’s severed head seems merely disembodied; floating, not hanging from a hook; eyes creamy and dozing in a sheen of deep thought, as if she remembers the pastures,
the smell of shook clover, hedges to be jumped over, the raptures of mad rams later dismembered. A stumped man following his wife to the butcher’s shop stares
into the sheep’s lifeless eyes, his moist...
