Left Field
Lined up like the Waterford cows,
metal bodies glitter in an Irish field.
Their black rubber circles squelch
acres of reconstituted bovine cud.
A Friesian audience has gathered
to ruminate on two-legged animals
with red and white coats, running
and hurling a stone to each other
between showers, near Carol’s Cross.
Frances Macaulay Forde © 2003
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[…] was very proud to find my name, next to my poem ‘Left Field’ on the long list for The Plough Prize in 2007, discovered quite by accident years […]
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