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.
She's lovely!
ReplyDeleteOh Kind Sir
ReplyDeleteI 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.
Beau.
Anna :o]
PS I want one!
MORNING AJ And you are a wise judge ma'am.
ReplyDeleteANNA 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".
Beau is definitely bringing out the teacher in you.
ReplyDeleteThe 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
YP's Sheep
ReplyDeleteFrom 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)
KATHERINE
ReplyDeleteOh 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!
When thou art old and lying in thy bed
ReplyDeleteAnd 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.
RHYMES WITH POET
ReplyDeleteOh 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.