Cud

    There were a series
    of three animals
    - wise men I propose -
    interchangeably looking
    (throwing off their guises'
    as non-sentient brutes),
    scrounging the grass
    (eyes foddering me)
    chewing on looks,
    cud-like,
    -one a black
    goat shorn of
    his devil look
    and a burro,
    mood entranced, in
    armour of mangey velvet.

    II
    Swinging bells,
    making me believe
    the twilight caper
    that morning lay
    more in reindeer's
    breath than any
    solidarity with
    oat or hoove.

    III
    A strange lot,
    they'd ramrod their
    gaze with blare
    of lightning,
    peering into some
    primordial instinct
    one normally tucks
    onto a sleeve or
    cranny when thunder strikes.

    IV
    Pelting rain,
    the white mare,
    streaked more like
    a camel with her
    own dung and manure,
    (shadings differ)
    the sun a tingling dew
    refreshing cantaloupes;
    the sparkle of their walk
    investigating me
    in solid cacophony of faith.

    V
    A form of worship, to be exact,
    the Christ-child
    in a manger
    we four in shared trance
    a growing sluggishness
    to their fear building
    by prospect of food
    and inter-species bond.