The Trade

Son, today when I stare at my cupped hands

I remember how as a calf she suckled my fingers;


that sticky trickle of her rough tongue,

how she would follow me around the pen.


Later as a heifer, the energy in her leap and bound

as she came to my first call.


Then motherhood, my hand on her warm flank,

her milk filling pails for both of our children.


When I look into my hands, Jack, I see more

magic in memory than I'll ever get from these beans.





Written by Jim Carruth.


Published in Jim's collection Bale Fire, Polygon, 2019, available from www.polygonbooks.co.uk


Recent Posts

See All

Hrabal in Dumbarton

Hrabal in Dumbarton and Ballantyne's a cinnamon brick amongst the drab unasked-for grey, a half-drunk figure facing eternity and death. How like the town he drives through? How distant now from the po

Dear

Here's a skin to begin to win on - taut wi da tug o aathin du nivvir lairnt. Here's a fraem ta hing a future on - nekkit ta winds at blaa nae annsirs. Here's a cushion ta faa, ta faa ta watch rushin u

A Month of Teachings

Master MacZen compared enlightenment to the flight of martins through a stable door, how the bright and shade of plumage embodied that birl from darkness to light. And on another day he compared histo

Drop Me a Line, Let Me Know What You Think

© 2023 by Train of Thoughts. Proudly created with Wix.com