The noise.
He was pulled out, squealing,
an iron cleek sunk in the roof
of his mouth.
(Don't say they are not intelligent:
they know the hour has come
and they want none of it;
they dig in their little trotters,
will not go dumb or singing
to the slaughter.)
That high pitched final effort,
no single sound could match it-
a big plane roaring off,
a diva soaring towards her last note,
the brain-chilling persistance of an electric saw,
scrap being crushed.
Piercing & absolute,
only high heaven ignores it.
The a full stop.
Mickey Boyle plants
a solid thump of the mallet
flat between the ears.
Swiftly the knife seeks the throat;
swiftly the other cleavers work
till the carcass is hung up
shining and eviscerated as
a surgeon's coat.
A child is given
the bladder to play with.
But the walls of the farmyard
still hold that scream,
are built around it.
