Weekends with Cowbells

You hung their field over the front door,
Austrian air captured in your vestibule,
the vast echo of a mountains voice
languishes, lush green beneath the Alps.

Grandad would leave as early as the milk floats
and I would see them ambling down, udders full
for the wooden stool, then drift back off to sleep
and dream the warm bucket onto the doorstep.

What tales you must have, secrets hand crafted
into curves. The village procession on fresh melt snow,
leading to the rich high pastures, this is where
we will go, beyond the suburban street lights.

Following your young herd, high on majestic peaks
I wait to catch your hollow sound as Grandad
gets in from work and shares his stories
about the cows he had to wrestle for the bells.