Fox Footprints/The Oxen
The Oxen
The yoke of great white oxen bow their headsBeneath the weight of their up-curving hornsBrass-tipped and painted a dull apricot.On each flank two faint bluish sweeping linesMark the old branding,Heavy are their humps,Swaying the thin white dewlap from their throats.Ten silver bells are bound from horn to horn.The driver stands, one leg behind the other,Wrapped in white cloth from thin loins to thin knee,His awkwardness a grace conventionalized.Up to the oxen's bellies all is greenBut their low-swinging heads and sword-like hornsAnd all the angles of the man are placedAgainst a brilliant blue.
So might they standFrescoed upon the walls of some old tomb,To fill with pride the dusted hearts of mummiesStill masters over so much tranquil power.