Each night the dairyman her husband
sinks like a hoof
in the muck of his sleeping,
and she rises to her work,
out over the stiles,
lifting her nightgown
above her knees
to wade the undulant pastures
where, with a curtsey the irony
of which does not vex them,
she dismisses the recumbent
Guernseys from the blue spills
of curdling moonlight
that are her responsibility
to gather and bury
by the hour before dawn.