Fox Footprints/The Oxen
The Oxen
The yoke of great white oxen bow their heads
Beneath the weight of their up-curving horns
Brass-tipped and painted a dull apricot.
On each flank two faint bluish sweeping lines
Mark 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 green
But their low-swinging heads and sword-like horns
And all the angles of the man are placed
Against a brilliant blue.
Beneath the weight of their up-curving horns
Brass-tipped and painted a dull apricot.
On each flank two faint bluish sweeping lines
Mark 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 green
But their low-swinging heads and sword-like horns
And all the angles of the man are placed
Against a brilliant blue.
So might they stand
Frescoed upon the walls of some old tomb,
To fill with pride the dusted hearts of mummies
Still masters over so much tranquil power.
Frescoed upon the walls of some old tomb,
To fill with pride the dusted hearts of mummies
Still masters over so much tranquil power.