THE HEDGEHOG CULL

 

The campaigners have won

The Hedgehog cull won’t be done

They argued it shouldn’t go ahead

It was just wrong they said

Saying they were un putdown-able

I think they are just un pickup-able

BUTTERFLIES FLUTTER BY # 2

Butterflies flutter by

On pale Cabbage white wings,

Heralds of beauty

RUNNYMEDE

 

I sit in the green and pleasant corner of this land known as Runnymede where the Thames laps its way ever closer to London.

Trees line the river’s edge and the Willows that stand weeping into the river might well be weeping for what man has done to the land.

For this place though beautiful still was once more so.

The senses cannot fail to notice man’s hand, the ears are assailed by the constant hum of motorway traffic and by jets arriving and departing Heathrow and the nostrils are filled with the stench of aviation fuel.

The area is littered with inappropriate buildings and roads of every type scar the land.

On the river the surface of the water bares the tell-tale rainbow pattern of patches of fuel slick and at its edge the 21^st century flotsam of tin cans, McDonald’s wrappers, fag ends and paper cups.

If King John, who under pressure from his barons signed the Magna Carta here in 1215, was to stand here now and see what we have done he might well fall upon his own sword.

THIS TALK OF CULLING BADGERS

 

This talk of culling badgers

Is completely unsound

If we keep discussing it

We’ll drive them underground

BUTTERFLIES FLUTTER BY # 1

 

Butterflies flutter by

In Magnolia melancholy

On gossamer wings

SNAIL PACE

 

To go faster had always been

The snail’s greatest wish

So, he took his shell off

But it just made him Sluggish

HARBINGER OF SPRING

 

What wonderful weather at the weekend it was so nice after the long winter, although it probably seemed longer that it was because we had no summer last year.

Anyway, the weather was so nice that I left my wife in bed reading the Sundays and I took a walk arround the village.

As I enjoyed the warm spring sunshine, I noticed the many harbingers of the season such as the daffodils nodding in the breeze, birdsong everywhere and endless parades of cyclists punctuated only by cars towing caravans.

 

After a couple of hours, I headed towards home but then thought I might have a cool beer at the village pub.

Once there I had to negotiate my way through piles of mounting bikes and was then greeted by the scene of a packed beer garden full of people showing far too much white flesh.

So, I decided to give it a miss and went home instead but when I entered my house I discovered that the lodger had entered my wife more than once by the look of them and I was immediately struck with the thought that this must be the first cuckold of spring.