Poem du jour

Poem du jour

The Night Chapel
by Peter Bennet

Although the floor beneath our hooves is pasture
the grass is not enough. We're brought

each evening to this room of darkening air
where cantors lead us with our throats

extended in the bleating prayer
we know instinctively - unlike the goats

who learn their raucous chants by rote -
which begs our ovine gods for human posture

and proper meals of cake and caviar.
Set free at last from scabies and the bloat

we'll ride to town at dawn on Shanks's mare
like upright citizens in woollen coats

to promulgate the cause and flock to vote
for sheep-pens and the abattoir.