summer noon

Beyond the grey-moated city,
cows feed on peasants' taxed grass;

pigs sit in brown pools, seeking trough,
anxious to gorge themselves in sow.

They search for a sweet banquet
and settle for the tomato-sour flesh.

Near a sickly farmhouse overlooking
the high-rise highway to the city,

I lie under an ancient windmill,
that whirls like years passing above.

At noon, the wool sun burns, paws at me,
as dogs bark after sheep on a quiet hill.

Oh, to leave the trough and the mud,
and feast on the sweet bead of the mill!

No shade from the windmill,
I watch autos head eastward 70.