11 October 2011


Ode to Beau

Quietly, so quietly you gorge upon our grass.

Silently, so silently the daylight hours pass.

I woke to hear you just past dawn

Sheepishly munching on our lawn.

Like tiny waves your fleece it curls

Tight and springy with lanolin whirls

Your voice is deep and reassuring

Your wise brown eyes are so alluring.

Oh Beau , I’ve spent my whole life counting sheep

Jumping over gates to send me to sleep.

I never thought in my wildest dreams,

My fantasies and hair-brained schemes

That I’d ever receive a genuine sheep -

A real life Merino for me to keep!

Folk wonder why I called you Beau -

I shake my head 'cos I don't know.


  1. Oh Kind Sir

    I do thee entreat
    that you listen to my earnest bleat
    that you should get to know me better
    (before you see me as a sweater
    or a woolly rug beneath your feet}
    and I guess that my hunch is,
    that if I become your Sunday lunches
    that you will find it hard to sleep,
    feel guilty when you’re counting sheep
    when you know I love you bunches.

    I feel you have the right to know
    just how much I love you so
    and I think that you ought’a
    (if you wish to take this lamb to slaughter)
    consider that I am your best friend.


    Anna :o]

    PS I want one!

  2. MORNING AJ And you are a wise judge ma'am.
    ANNA Thank you for pleading so eloquently and poetically on Beau's behalf. Your dexterity with language is matched only by your ovine compassion.
    Regarding "I want one!" you must understand that sheep ownership brings with it a huge amount of responsibility. Remember the yellow car stickers - "A sheep is for sheepskins not just for meat".

  3. Beau is definitely bringing out the teacher in you.

    The Sheep adorns the landscape rural
    And is both singular and plural—
    It gives grammarians the creeps
    To hear one say, “A flock of sheeps.”

    - Ellis Parker Butler

  4. YP's Sheep

    From where I stand the sheep stands still
    As stones against the stony hill.

    The stones are gray
    And so are they.

    And both are weatherworn and round,
    Leading the eye back to the ground.

    Two mingled flocks -
    The sheep, the rocks.

    And still no sheep stirs from its place
    Or lifts its Babylonian face.

    Never pellets can this sheep excrete
    'cos this one's made of paint'd 'crete.

    (with apologies to Robert Francis)

    Oh thou art a heartless Kiwi
    I'm off to the lav to have a wee-wee
    For Beau is as real as life itself
    Not made from concrete or anything else!
    Her heart it beats like a constant drum
    My woolly animal is not dumb!

  6. When thou art old and lying in thy bed
    And thinking of the dumb things thou hast said
    Wilt thou recall those halcyon days of old
    When thou didst on thy friends these posts unfold?
    O Yorkshire lad, they trusted thou wast true
    Who gave to them each day a piece of ewe.

    Oh my dear American friend
    Will thy wisdom know no end?
    Like a signpost standing in the snow
    Thou showest me the way to go.
    Thy wit that's known across the world
    Lets bloggers' laughter be unfurled
    Like flags that danceth in the breeze
    Or flapping sails on stormy seas.


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