The cow in apple time
Something inspires the only cow of late
To make no more of a wall than an open gate
And think no more of wall-builders than fools
Her face is flecked with pomace and she drools
A cider syrup. Having tasted fruit
She scorns a pasture withering to the root
She runs from tree to tree where lie and sweeten
The windfalls spiked with stubble and worm-eaten
She leaves them bitten when she has to fly
She bellows on a knoll against the sky
Her udder shrivels and the milk goes dry