Our son died on a Sunday morning, he had gone to work as he did every Sunday to do the milking for a farmer that he had worked for for many years. He knew the herd very well and had assisted more than a few of them into this world. Amongst them was his favourite cow, Whiskey. This is how I think about that morning.
Soft mist over cool green Devon fields
Dew sparkling in the early morning sun
A gentle breeze murmuring through the hedges.
Cows with kindly brown eyes
Stand in silent confusion, heavy with milk,
First a patient lowing then
A shifting of their hooves
A quickening of their breath
A snort, a nudge.
But still the steady drone of the tractor
Stopped forever in a moment of time.
Then the sound of sirens, all peace destroyed
The herd scatters, then when all is quiet
They return silently
Carefully probing the empty tractor.
For a moment they are lost
Something has changed.
But the call of the Milking Parlour is strong
And they must answer.
Only one remains