The Culling

The weary farmer leans upon the wooden gate…
Habit is an old master and he somehow expects
The usual dawn, the full palette of springtime,
The white flocks on green hills.

Through his eyes and at a distance
The black and white of newsprint speaks out:
"Springtime lies murdered at our gate.
And a tear falls from a weather-beaten face.

There's too much stillness in the air.
"Farming's finished now! they say.
"Finished now! Well, the cows and pigs
Are gone.  Sure the sow turned vicious

To save her young, but slaughter
Makes no exception.  Soldiers follow orders
And the youngest lamb of all is born
In time to die on this land that bleeds.