The valley cradles you in green baize.
Open skied, the sun
carelessly bakes you. You make me smile.
Your shadow throws a blotch of coolness
with remarkable generosity,
and you awaken, scented by manure,
trotting on tip-toe between stones
from your night-time dreams,
darkness lanterned by a moon
glowing like a turnip freshly dug.
You flesh out a vitality, dewed
damp in your glistening skin.
We tempt you
away from the slurry pit, mud caked,
protected, a dirt-ball clown.
© Martin Porter 2015