There Are No Demons

As the farmer comes in
the sun burns into the copse,
yolk broken over trees
dribbling light on the soil.
A bruised bunch of poppies
blush inside his fist,
he keeps them to his chest
like a dead love or a child.
In the darkening yard
the stink of hay and shit.
From the pasture
he hears the shaking
of his skin and bone horse.
In the house he wanders
for hours and hours,
looking at the walls, or into
the garden that lies dreaming
or down into the town.
He finds himself in the pantry
staring at an egg
cupped inside his hands.
Later, he wakes in bed,
covered in sweat, laughing.
The moon bulges badly
into his bedroom,
the throbbing is there again,
behind the eyes.
He hears moans rising
from the yard, rushes down
the stairs naked with poppies
flying from his fingers,
to the cattleshed.
The cows are black with blood,
reek of metal and screaming
in their eyes. He reaches out
until his hand and hide,
trembling, meet.
The dogs, he says, the dogs.