The Nicolson Institute: Scott Macleod
"She's shy" said the farmer.
Not in my eyes.
I didn't see a timid cow,
I saw a putrid stain
On an otherwise perfect landscape.
The golden field abruptly halted
By this black-brown bovine beast
By the tree.
My hands grew frigid
Even against the cold stone wall,
As it seemed the smell had wafted up
From the creature's fetid, stinking hide.
A brief look round at my friends
But looking back at the cow
I was sure it had moved closer.
by Scott Macleod