Freshened by any wind, sanitised
with pine and cypress, the slaughterhouse
is cool as a church inside. High rafters
too. A gallery. The hooks hang ready.
Nothing else intercepts the day’s late
blaze across the Seven Sleepers’ chins
and Cooper’s Knobs, on this point between
adjacent bays, only a blotched light
can get past, as the wind in the trees,
fidgeting to the doorway. The door
on its iron track having been wheeled back
wide enough, the small boys, me and Bob
Crawford, can see in. One of the men
turns our way, in the act of closing his
left hand on the lamb’s throat, at the bass
viol the right, the bowing hand slashes
deep! in blood stepped in so far will up
to the eyes or the ears be enough?
They’re all busy now, the hosing down
will have started. Add water and sweep
shit pellets puddled blood, the outfall
gulps, discharges over the rock-face
misting all the way to the green bay
water, with a noise of waters, where
the round stain dilates. An enrichment
I think the children had been silent, all
this time. I will have pulled my bike, off
his, on the tree. Nothing alters this
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