'COWS IN CAPES'

Beneath the Old Fig Tree eleven cows lazed

and glared at the yard where a younger herd grazed.

 

“Look how the farmer attends to that lot.

Stroking and speaking — and singing! What rot!

We’re older and wiser. We’re steady and smart!

What are the features that set them apart?”

 

Each of the elders suspected she knew.

The answer paraded itself within view.

 

Eyes: bright and clear.

Hide: tight, unflawed.

Legs: straight, well-balanced.

Hips: strong and broad.

 

The seniors required some advantage: unique.

A measure to mask their unpretty physique.

 

While chewing on cud and the matter at hand,

one of their number discerned something grand.

 

A party of farm-children played with delight,

adorned in strange outfits — attractive and bright.

 

“There’s our solution! Superbly attired,

as well-costumed cows, we’ll be greatly admired.”

 

Two of their group purloined needle and thread. 

Others pulled sheets from the sheepshearer’s bed.

 

Preparing to sew took the cows weeks to master.

Stitching the cloth led to pain and disaster.

 

“Perhaps what we need is advice, on reflection.

Where might we find sound support and direction?”

 

The farm-cats — a dozen or more (no one knew) —

provided a promising ploy (in their view).

 

Speak to the people. Soft purring’s the best.

Or rub round their ankles and sit on their chest.

 

The cows’ brave attempts to communicate flopped.

They garnered attention, but there their gains stopped.

 

They sagged by the Old Tree and faced a sad truth:

the future belonged to the beauty of youth.

 

The elder cows wept — weary, weak, and distraught —

unable to capture the glory they sought.

 

At sunrise, the farmhouse seemed quiet, serene.

A mood of potential pervaded the scene.

 

As glimmers of morning caressed the calm sight,

patches of colour emerged — strange and bright.

 

On closer inspection, the cows found a treasure:
a clothesline of costumes; a worth beyond measure.

 

They charged at the items and donned them. (Well, tried.)

The outfits were too small (or cows were too wide).

 

Spidercow’s stretchy suit ruptured and tore.

Batcow and Supercow found theirs a chore.

 

Gloves were a nuisance, while shoes were absurd.

It looked as if nothing would fit this old herd.

 

The cows swept the now-useless garments aside,

exposing a carpet of capes they’d not tried.

 

They pounced on the long strips of harlequin twill,

attached them (with effort) and raced up the hill.

 

The elder cows turned; their capes flapped in the breeze.

Exquisite, they’d win back the farmer with ease.

 

The cows in capes pranced through the juveniles’ yard,

ensuring their glamour attracted regard.

 

They marched past the farmer.

They swaggered and swayed:

a beautiful, bovine-beast fashion parade.

 

However, their actions were shunned or ignored.

Their owner seemed distant, distracted, or bored.

 

The caped cows assembled to rethink their plan ...

then noticed a two-storied, hundred-wheeled van.

 

Amidst clouds of dust-and-dirt, ordure, and muck,

the juniors were forced up a ramp to the truck.

 

A farm-cat looked up from its preening and cleaning

to update the elders and clarify meaning.

 

The young ones will shortly return. That’s their fate,

their beauty arranged on a dinner-time plate.

 

In a flurry of fabric, the cows shed their gear

and raced from the yard with relief, tinged with fear.

 

Beneath the Old Fig Tree eleven cows lazed

and pondered the place where a young herd once grazed.

 

“There’s much to be said for the beauty of age.

The wisdom; the grace; lessons learned by this stage.

Our eyes might be dull,

our hides lacking appeal,

our legs, bony, curved ...

but we shan’t be a meal!”