[David Callin]

Part of our household lexicon,
like pullet, haggard, abertyre,
it snored in the middle of our farm,
comfortable in its fug.

There was no malice to it.
Once, when my father edged out on a ladder,
my sister having strayed in too far,
it gave her up quite easily.

The smell of the country, we learned to call it.
Somehow I think of liquorice,
as if I grew up in a liquorice factory,
kicking a ball among the vats.

It snored in the middle of our farm.
Little Muddy, Tiny Reekie,
our decaying omphalos,
hanging around like itself.