I walk these old
Welsh lanes & what do I see?
Between flocks of
sheep, a fox peeping at me,
With twitching red
ears & his small beady eyes,
Then gone in a
flash, with the squawk of magpies.
The pheasants in their
finery strutting fine plumes,
Little jays &
tits serenading in sweet country tunes,
Baby bunnies
darting & the fleeing of brown hare,
On icy Welsh
thermals, the red-kite takes to the air.
Big shire-horses
clopping down hedge-hoary-lanes,
Stripy badger peeping,
as new moon ebbs & wanes,
Little-robin-red-breast,
among hedge´s new berries,
Camouflaged as fruits,
rosehip & scarlet red cherries.
Behind cosy warm windows,
cats observing my walking,
Silence of grey mists,
with only crows doing their talking,
Did I spy a raven rare,
a jackdaw, or maybe just a rook?
And was that an otter
I hear, down by Potter´s Brook?
Squirrels in their
trees, munching acorns from old oaks,
Over distant valleys,
I spy bent chimneys curling smoke,
And as the moon lies
low & velvet night begins to turn,
Old owl in his tree
calls, “I know one day you will return”.
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