sounds like Johnny Trawscoed yoiking the cattle in,
is sour like slurry trailing off the muck-spreader,
elastic as mucus bouncing from the sick
cow's muzzle, as dark as a bull's belly.
The magpies are sweet compared to your laugh.
Unhygenic as the feral cat, your voice
trawls its belly round far-flung farms,
is bitten off like spat claws, tails
and viscera of mice left on the doormat.
Limping like Idris after the sow trapped him,
muddy as the lane when the culverts flood,
mired as the gate where the cows wait,
your voice is matted as the sack
Idris wears over his jacket in the rains,
as frayed as his shirt collars, as faded
as the flowered oil-cloth on your kitchen table.
Your Voice was short listed for the Strokestown Poetry Competition,