They want to bite her legs, the pigs,
who eat anything, everything, all …
They’re voyeurs of the worst kind,
they wait and watch and growl.
The noise continues through twilight,
as she sits quiet, in reflection,
but, hark, is that them coming through?
She grabs a broom for protection.
They charge the fence and mire the field,
rattle buckets, stare,
they groan to make her stomach squeal.
Gimlet-eyed malevolent glare.
Ghastly grunts and hawking coughs,
yellow hair on pink piggy backs,
blighted, boorish, ghoulish black spots,
windy, snotty, snuffling, wuffling, dirty, shirty pigs.
Now, what good she thinks the broom will do
is a very perceptive question.
Maybe she’ll ram it in their maws
and ruin their digestion.
Polly Robinson © 2013