Pasture

This is in response to a challenge from Blue Jeans and Lace on MySpace to write something – anything, not necessarily a poem – on a Robert Frost title. So far I think we're all following her lead in which titles to choose, and I've got some catching up to do – so here's my first. (Trusting to fallible memory, I mistook the title. It was supposed to be The Pasture. You can see I'm not so well acquainted with Frost.)

Pasture

The very word sounds lush,
creamy, like the thick milk
from those contented cows
in an ad I heard so often growing up
that it seeped forever into my brain.

But around here the pastures
look skimpy, the few dairy herds
appear either stressed or bored
(and boredom itself, of course,
creates a kind of stress).

I'm not enamoured of cows.
City child, I thought them
lumbering beasts, their horns
threatening, their smell vile.
And they seem to lack personality.

What I love is trees.
These hills and river valleys
left to themselves, teem with trees.
Down around the Richmond, autumnal tones
line the roadways now and dot the fields.

Here on the Tweed it's mostly natives,
tropical natives with their own colours –
bright red and yellow flowers and leaves,
and the rich variety of greens –
flourishing in this earth, their pasture.