SHEEP'S HEAD

On top of a gatepost was a sheep's head.
The remnant of some religious festival
from the day before.
It smiled with rows
of small white teeth
like a grotesque finial.

It greeted us as we sidled past
on our way to school.
And over the course of a week,
the eyes glazed with milk,
the smile became a grimace.

I remember looking elsewhere
at the time of slaughter.
The securing of legs and
the cutting of a delicate throat.

Then I must confess,
I ogled with morbid fascination
at the subsequent carving.
The careful emptying of intestines.
The sacred bucket of blood and offal.

At night I lay awake, a witness
to the rabid screeching of cats
serenading the honoured sacrifice
while moonlight glimmered on its rotting face.