THE OLD MENDICANT

You need to mix molasses with the straw
even when the paddocks are bone dry;
dark into water clear; a heavy stick to mix;
rattle truck cacophony; bails stacked sky high.
He grunts and mutters dark and light:
loves salt and earth and curses holy goats.
His world: rope tug births, markets, herds,
the stuff of shit stench, dust clouds, heavy loads.
His other world is long remembering:
the virtue vice of old Manila Streets and begging,
the vice virtue of old school monasteries.
Up in the hills he's bellowing his call;
a bucket of molasses and liberal scattered straw;
the drought wise man of practicalities
knows how to keep beasts alive with poor feed.