In this, my last poem about my father,
there may be time enough
for him to fill their drinking-trough
and run his eye over

his three mooley heifers.
Such a well-worn path,
I know from here to the galvanized bath. 
I know, too, you would rather

I saw behind the hedge to where the pride
of the herd, though not an Irish
bull, would cherish
the ladies with his electric cattle-prod.

As it is, in my last poem about my father
he opens the stand-pipe
and the water scurries along the hose
till it’s curled

in the bath, One heifer
may look up
and make a mental note, then put her nose
back to the salt-lick of the world.