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    [ID] => 1366
    [post_author] => 2
    [post_date] => 2014-12-04 10:54:26
    [post_date_gmt] => 2014-12-04 10:54:26
    [post_content] => After the fair, I'd still a light heart
and a heavy purse, he struck so cheap.
And cattle doted on him: in his time
mine only dropped heifers, fat as cream.
Yields doubled. I grew fond of company
that knew when to shut up. Then one night,
 
disturbed from dreams of my dear late wife,
I hunted down her torn voice to his pale form.
Stock-still in the light from the dark lantern,
stark-naked but for one bloody boot of fox-trap,
I knew him a warlock, a cow with leather horns.
To go into the hare gets you muckle sorrow,
 
the wisdom runs, muckle care. I levelled
and blew the small hour through his heart.
The moon came out. By its yellow witness
I saw him fur over like a stone mossing.
His lovely head thinned. His top lip gathered.
His eyes rose like bread. I carried him
 
in a sack that grew lighter at every step
and dropped him from a bridge. There was no
splash. Now my herd's elf-shot. I don't dream
but spend my nights casting ball from half-crowns
and my days here. Bless me Father for I have sinned.
It has been an hour since my last confession.
    [post_title] => The Lammas Hireling
    [post_excerpt] => 
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    [post_name] => the-lammas-hireling
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    [post_modified] => 2019-04-04 10:57:51
    [post_modified_gmt] => 2019-04-04 10:57:51
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    [post_parent] => 0
    [guid] => http://poetrysociety.org.uk.gridhosted.co.uk/?post_type=poems&p=1366
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            [wpcf-published-in] => 
            [wpcf-date-published] => 2000
            [wpcf-summary-description] => 
            [wpcf-rights-information] => 
            [wpcf-poem-award] => 1st Prize, National Poetry Competition 2000
            [wpcf_pr_belongs] => 
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    [poet_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [ID] => 1123
            [forename] => Ian 
            [surname] => Duhig
            [title] => Ian Duhig
            [slug] => ian-duhig
            [content] => Ian Duhig has written six books of poetry, most recently Pandorama (Picador, 2010) and Digressions (Smokestack, 2014), a collaboration with the artist Philippa Troutman. He has also worked with artists, historians, film makers and homeless people as well as a range of musicians, from the pre-baroque consort The Clerks to the contemporary avant-garde composer Christopher Fox. He has won a Forward Prize, the National Poetry Competition in 1987 and 2000, and been shortlisted three times for the T S Eliot Prize.
        )

)
stdClass Object
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    [ID] => 1123
    [forename] => Ian 
    [surname] => Duhig
    [title] => Ian Duhig
    [slug] => ian-duhig
    [content] => Ian Duhig has written six books of poetry, most recently Pandorama (Picador, 2010) and Digressions (Smokestack, 2014), a collaboration with the artist Philippa Troutman. He has also worked with artists, historians, film makers and homeless people as well as a range of musicians, from the pre-baroque consort The Clerks to the contemporary avant-garde composer Christopher Fox. He has won a Forward Prize, the National Poetry Competition in 1987 and 2000, and been shortlisted three times for the T S Eliot Prize.
)

The Lammas Hireling

Ian Duhig

After the fair, I’d still a light heart
and a heavy purse, he struck so cheap.
And cattle doted on him: in his time
mine only dropped heifers, fat as cream.
Yields doubled. I grew fond of company
that knew when to shut up. Then one night,
 
disturbed from dreams of my dear late wife,
I hunted down her torn voice to his pale form.
Stock-still in the light from the dark lantern,
stark-naked but for one bloody boot of fox-trap,
I knew him a warlock, a cow with leather horns.
To go into the hare gets you muckle sorrow,
 
the wisdom runs, muckle care. I levelled
and blew the small hour through his heart.
The moon came out. By its yellow witness
I saw him fur over like a stone mossing.
His lovely head thinned. His top lip gathered.
His eyes rose like bread. I carried him
 
in a sack that grew lighter at every step
and dropped him from a bridge. There was no
splash. Now my herd’s elf-shot. I don’t dream
but spend my nights casting ball from half-crowns
and my days here. Bless me Father for I have sinned.
It has been an hour since my last confession.