The Long Dry

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He tastes to her of coffee. In the morning, when he comes to wake her up.

‘The cow’s gone,’ he says. ‘The roan with the heavy bag. She’s gone. I’m going to look for her.’

He walks out and though it’s early there’s a promise of heat in the sun. It’s been like this for weeks.

She thinks of him walking down the lane, along the hedgerow, into the long field, the flies buzzing and ticking as he walks quickly over the dried ground, scuffing the loose stones.

He climbs over the first gate and she hears it clang gently through the open window of the room. She imagines him stopping; watching and listening, and all he hears are the flies and the flat moans of the sheep when they look up at him.

She looks at the watch on the table by the bed and it’s just gone six.

__ the Calf

He’d woken earlier and gone out to check the cows. The night had been still and again he could not sleep with all the thoughts filling the silence of the un-moving night; so he had got up and gone into the clear, still morning. For very long it had been very still. It was before the light came up.

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