April 10, 2014

 

 

 Oh, Hamish darling

I have heard that Sandy

has developed foot rot

and may finish up bandy.

 

It’s just a rumour

I heard it too.

It’s the latest trend

to paint trotters cobalt blue.

 

Sandy picked it up

from her cousins kids

when acting the goat

on a night out on the skids.

 

So don’t fret over her hooves

of bright dolly blue.

It’ll never catch on, and

gives her something to do.

 

I have to cut her some slack,

on her Ewes night out.

I keep my mutton chops shut,

if I know what I’m about.

 

Oh, Hamish darling,

you wise moorside herald.

Did you inherit your tact

from great uncle Gerald?

 

You hack these hills

like a satellite,

yet no mobile network

is there in sight!

 

You flatter my wisdom

but when the swamps came,

I had little choice,

other than, to up my game.

 

And those wind turbines

still a constant pain.

If they fell on our heads

we’d all become insane.

 

Our loyal shepherdess

and chief hill protector,

ever watchful too

with her metal detector.

 

patrols these woods

knowing a little prick

from her magic wand

will do the trick.

 

She also zaps the poachers

who quake with fear,

becoming a tasered melt down

from her lethal spear.

 

It gives us peace of mind

knowing too that the deer,

also our trusted friends,

have nothing to fear.

 

So all things equal

life is pretty good.

We coped with the floods

and the wretched mud.

 

And lambing time

has brought the sun

which for Sandy and I

as grandparents is fun.

 

And with human hikers,

again in our field, we find.

To ‘mint sauce’ jokes once more,

we’ve become resigned.

 

 

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