We gather here remembering our dead. My family, all aunts and cousins too, And countless others, pigs, some sheep I knew. When e’er I see black smoke I cringe in dread. But here, Great Orton, is the place of shame, Where lie whole herds and flocks, without a name. Trucked here from off the fells and Solway Plain. Appeals for sense, for mercy, made in vain. Remember, too, our owners; some who died, While others in their grief, walked, staring eyed. There is no need for marble monuments. We well remember all those innocents. But, nor should we forget men made them die, Who still deny all guilt, won't learn, and lie. 'till they admit their wrongs, we can't forgive. Mistrust and hatred; that's no way to live.
I and some of my sisters survived. We were too young to be sent away for winter with our herd.
R.M. 10th March 2011