Poetry by Clare Best

The coming of the name-givers

I am the young bull I must be found
before I can be named. Out in the field
with the herd in the heat,
curiosity blunted by sun, I move
slow one mountain in a range,
red and rare among my own,
wide eyes pool-black, staring I am

invisible. I've seen them, I know
why they come. Will I be Thor
god of thunder, slinging my hammer
across the skies? Will I be Odin
magician-creator? Or Rufus, blood-faced
king of England? No. Head broad as the fen,
noble as Lincoln, I will be as I am.*