Such friendly calves they were, with trusting charm
and gentle eyes. Among the rough half-breds,
their silky coated shapely bodies breathed
black-and-white pedigreed assurance.
Right from the outset they were uncrowned queens.
I didn’t want to sell them.

They were much too fine
for our herd, and we never meant to milk.
Our neighbour, with a well bred dairy herd,
admired the growing beauties who could bring
class to his milking parlour; but canny
farmers waste no cash on bids at home.

He watched them go to auction. “Go and try!
I won't bid, but you needn't sell
if no-one bids your set reserve;
I'll meet your price.”

They dodged about the ring with lowered head,
confused as I. The bidding stopped. And when
I should have said, “No,”
–  only one word, “No,”
I stood there dumb. And with the word unsaid
the auction hammer cracked on my reserve.

Our neighbour, and my husband, didn’t salt
the wound. Accepting I had lost my nerve,
they both shrugged. But I knew it was my fault.