Pig Sonnet

The pigs ran tiptoe through their hubbub,
elegant, avid, boistering at the trough,
quarrelled, were neighbourly, could laugh
seizing fresh straw in mouthfuls, squinting up
until they hung in the barn dumbfounded
in a long arabesque, their stiff lashes
painted with a little blood. There were dishes,
pails, a plastic bag. Good pigs, the man said,
holding a bucket of loganberry froth.
They've scraped well. You'll be wanting the blood?
He stood like an artist at the easel,
weight thrown back, appraising. Good clean pigs. Death
seemed merely stupefaction: passing, absurd
and like wax in the ears, remediable.


from Marginal Land (Peterloo Poets, 1988), © Meg Peacocke 1988, used by permission of the author

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1A History of the Dansant

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2Winter Solstice

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3Thirteenth Night

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4The World and Mrs Elphinstone

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5The Value of X

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6The bus

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7Simile

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8Shall We Dance?

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9Scythe Music

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10Jug

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11In Praise of Aunts

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12Gowbarrow Park

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13Glimpsing

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14Seaside Stories

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15The All-But-Seen

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16The Veldt Farmer's Daughter

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17Seeing New

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18Between

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19An Inventory of Silence

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20Paddling at Lake Aziscohos

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21Package Holiday

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22The Visit

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23Pig Sonnet

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24A Glass of Water

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25Memories of the Garden

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26Three Reflections on the Creation of Man

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27Being Weasel

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28Goose Hymn

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29Caliban Dancing

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30Caliban Praying

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31The Journey to Balkh

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32Late Snow

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