Waiting for the Woodman A mudpack of pigs on devastated ground Seven dark grey sows, two red males pound-for-pound His truck is here, but the woodman’s not around.   Greed hasn’t left here a single speck of green In one corner, the pond wears a greasy sheen The man who sells firewood, nowhere to be seen.   Perhaps he fell, they ate him? I look about Every last inch of him snuffled past flat snout? Bacon-makers scoff humans, oh have no doubt.   The seven sows doze, their skin suncreamed with mud Like beached seals they lie, fat ladies in…