Cud
By Paul Cameron Brown
There were a series
of three animals
- wise men I propose -
interchangeably looking
(throwing off their guises'
as non-sentient brutes),
scrounging the grass
(eyes foddering me)
chewing on looks,
cud-like,
-one a black
goat shorn of
his devil look
and a burro,
mood entranced, in
armour of mangey velvet.
II
Swinging bells,
making me believe
the twilight caper
that morning lay
more in reindeer's
breath than any
solidarity with
oat or hoove.
III
A strange lot,
they'd ramrod their
gaze with blare
of lightning,
peering into some
primordial instinct
one normally tucks
onto a sleeve or
cranny when thunder strikes.
IV
Pelting rain,
the white mare,
streaked more like
a camel with her
own dung and manure,
(shadings differ)
the sun a tingling dew
refreshing cantaloupes;
the sparkle of their walk
investigating me
in solid cacophony of faith.
V
A form of worship, to be exact,
the Christ-child
in a manger
we four in shared trance
a growing sluggishness
to their fear building
by prospect of food
and inter-species bond.