No farm dog she, for all her breed,
but the very essence of domestic dog
the archetypal household pet,
all silken coat and pleading eyes,
begging for a biscuit
or a gentle word.
She faithfully assists at gardening chores,
chases balls, plays with the cat,
cavorts in mud until she tires,
and then retires to lick her paws
and sleep upon her beanbag
and, perchance, to dream.
Then she is free to inhabit
a world where sheep are not off limits.
She runs with others of her kind,
over the green-gold mountainside
to find the flocks and bring them
in swirling sweeping droves
down to the farm,
or, in winter dreams,
seeks out lost lambs in drifts of snow
and walks in pride behind the shepherd
carrying the rescued one
to the warm barn.
And there she sleeps
the sleep of duty done
and wakes to her daytime world,
a breakfast biscuit
and new day begun.
THE PERILS OF CAMPING
ON A WELSH MOUNTAINSIDE
If you come in the gloom,
There are white shapes that loom,
And the sounds are decidedly spooky.
No need to fear ghosts;
These are your hosts,
Just Badger and Felix and Luki.
If perchance you can’t sleep
And you try counting sheep
Line leaping over the pea sticks,
Badger’s sure to turn round
And come with a bound,
Followed by Luki and Felix.
If you’re mugged at the gate,
For you noticed too late
An importunate ovine cadger,
If it’s head’s in your pocket
And nothing will stop it,
It’s almost certainly Badger.
