Here's a poem (published) based on a trip to see some alpacas back in mid-October:
Meet and greet
We smell them first. Ammonia – a rush,
assailing nostrils, clinging in the throat.
And then, the sounds of sweeping,
brush brr-ush!
The east wind whips; I'm grateful for my coat.
We're ushered in. We're seven; they are eight
in white and beige and chestnut, grey and black.
They loiter, humming gently, by the gate,
or traipse towards us, turn, and sidle back.
I'm introduced to Otis, gelded male.
Just stroke his neck, says Jo, our barn hostess.
His hair's so soft, it's like a fairy tale,
and very dense. He blinks as I caress.
The humming's reassurance, Jo explains;
a constant checking everyone's alright –
no signs of fear, no nasty aches and pains.
Alpacas shriek, she adds, when they're in fright.
Geronimo, I think, and grit my teeth.
The black alpaca here, though, seems to smile:
her bottom-row incisors long beneath
her upper lip. Aunt Biddy. She has style.
I wonder if they think about Peru;
dismiss this, as, once more, they venture near,
their humming not unlike a wood kazoo
in chirpy tone and mood. They check and cheer.
Photo (also published): A.R. Teague,
Cotswold Alpacas (Aunt Biddy shown near the back)
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