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A BIRTHDAY POEM
This
rather small goat was kneedeep in a paddock.
The paddock entirely was fescue/rye/and clover green.
Also, bushes were there, which are good
for nibbling. Also, for hiding behind.
This small goat was white, like nothing but promise.
She didn’t always come when they called her
home, she had her reasons. Families
are like that. Sometimes she came – not announced
through a fence or over a fence – just to see
what was going on. She was, after all, family.
So, I make her, this little ivory would-be nanny,
stand out in a falling dark, twitching her ears,
pricking her lively scut,
at sounds of party
and whether or no she is
at the table she’s with them otherwise,
wishing most birthday wishes and that
all manner of things (as surely they will) go well.
Selected Poems. AUP 1989, p.154.
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