The sloshy poos of a big big cow
did bog my boots in the grubby field.
Clay turned to loam and slapped a puddle slap:
suck slip muddy suck till dribbled a rain.

Thereafter I spoke in clichés to a man of chocolate
who conversed in gurgles and was scathing
about his beetle-blighted corn crop,
savaged by ladybirds in the August frenzy.

His horse (and by'r lady, was there ever a beast
so mickle?), grass-fed to the greenest guts,
stood, twitching for employment. Methought
his eye did wish a leaner jockey

atop his dark brown back, to run the Thousand Guineas
(yeah, fifty pounds for provender
and a grand for the slobbering master, more like),
but I may have misinterpreted merely
an empty glance, painted by Miro.

At last, the Stansted helicopter's passing
reminded me my expedition's tardiness
and with a cough of policy, took my leave
and spoke no more to horses
nor to chocolate men that day.

Home to my woman and the boot-grate
and a bath and some gravy drownéd pie
in the candle light before sleep's stillness
and the violence of dreams.