Late July

by Alison Brackenbury

At her garden’s end I watched cows
In shade of a huge willow tree.
One stood, black with sun. One lay low,
Shrugged flies, till the cool of day.

With silver, long leaf, burnished skin,
The fields’ slow day filled my head.
We three sipped and talked but I can
Call back few words we said.

She left. Then he moved in next door,
Sold builders their shimmering lawn.
Permission was granted for stores,
Have those rough pastures gone?

I shall never go there again.
Yet she rings, of deals and rows,
And still at her long garden’s end
I watch warm backs of cows.