You poor young thing
I know why you’re there,
Forlorn and dejected
In a field with your brothers,
All dewy eyed
I can feel your resignation,
You’re missing your mother,
Your gender determined your fate
Although so handsome,
Yet not as prized as a daughter,
Lush Guernsey grass
Your only comfort now,
While you quietly
Await your slaughter.
Diane Scantlebury
