Cows gleefully frisk.

They have broken into orchard

and so exciting it is, so deliciously devilish

they revert to wild beasts,

toss demented heads

as if horns threatened to Wolverine-out

and shaggy buffalo manes braced to werewolf-spring.

Their eyes manic-shine

as they ring-a-rosy round, bellow Minotaurish-drunk

on impish wickedness, on impudence

thrash low-lying branches, Errol Flynn-pumped

relish spine massage thump of tree fencing, rigorous

though effect rather spoiled

by oscillating udders, four-fingered waving,

metaphorically yelling: Hey! Look at me!

Please!

Please!

Look at me, Mum!