Tunes
Next to the cattle market
A long alleyway room, where electric
looking chairs waited. Tunes the barbers.
‘Right to the bone’ he would order.
I sat quietly, as the snipping teeth bumped along.
Tractor chugging graders ran through, in
bends over hill shaped heads.
The cow dung wafted in sometimes
filling our nostrils with farm life.
I was always glad to get out, well mowed.
But groaning came from next door as we left.
My father once took us in there.
He was a city boy, so it was new to us both.
Flat cap men, dull coloured clothes
hoof kicking, stomping cattle.
We stood and watched, feeling out of place.
Prisoners tinned squeezed into trailers
took to new hills, waiting to be cut.
Gareth Culshaw is an aspiring writer who hopes one day to achieve something special with the pen. He resides in North Wales with his family and animals…