The Days of the Brindled Cow
A poem concerning Irish Folklore, Cows, and March.
Through marrow-boned clenches,
a cow collects the morning dew.
A softly sweet treat upon the
smog-laden grass,
droplet sustenance to quench
a fevered thirst.
‘You won’t catch me, March,
it never rains on the righteous,
and I’ve served my masters well.’
All of us on the sombre stream know
not to count blessings under
a Nimbus-cloud.
March was known to be an
impetuous tempest stirrer,
swilling with spite,
spitting in the eye of pride.
For thunder did fall
to foil those bovine droves.
‘I shall pull through
and sup your losses
on April’s first.’
Taunting makes the
heart grow fouler,
with wicked back-alley
deals, a day was taken.
April’s 31st — traded
by a sly acquiescence.
On that final day,
March swung with
the fury of Freyr,
splintering maelstroms
upon drenched pastures
until the herd was lost.
So here it be known,
no dangerous taunting
of elements beyond our realm,
and heed the warnings
of the Brindled Cow.
C.B
Thanks to The Blindboy Podcast for featuring an Ancient Irish folk tale called ‘The Days of the Brindled Cow’. I was inspired to tell the story via poem. Here’s to more poems about Cows.
