Inside this roofless barn they congregate
For shelter from the wind if not from wet.
They file through the narrow western end;
Once in, it’s tricky to get out again –
Until a couple leave rump-first, they can’t.
They stand in neat formation, facing front,
Where one has turned to face towards the back
As if he’s acting pastor to his flock.
He doesn’t know he’s preaching, nor do they
Who dumbly consecrate this makeshift byre.
Their mesmerising chewing’s like a prayer,
Their breath like incense rising to the sky.