‘The Oxen’ (a Poem)

In factories Secluded from the lights Of your civilisation (Cold walls, Screeching steel) We stand and wait. Comfort is found In scraps of peace: The lightest pressure Of breath against skin, A wet nose, A slow blink Of thick-lidded eyes. In factories Shielded from the glories Of your progress (Hoarse voices, Electric jolts) We stagger…