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Friday, 17 February 2017

a stranger in a strange land


 When you don’t know what to write it’s always good to go for a long walk. In the heart of the countryside, where we live, amongst  Nature’s beautiful landscapes, and uneaten animals - it struck me how incredibly noisy it is.
 Jai and Harry in the beautiful landscape

. There’s Roger chainsawing his wood to feed his huge baronial fireplace. There's  John strimming the verges. Frank is on the tractor flailing the hedges. In the skies micro lights motor and Roger’s son's drone buzzes like an angry wasp, swooping over the fields. Faintly you can hear the song of the sky larks and the cawing of the rooks who look as if they are building their nests. Then over head there is the breath of a dragon as a hot air balloon belches fire. The pigs in their pig unit squeal. They cannot hear the skylarks sing for a beautiful day.


 Look at how beautiful Mrs Walter's baby turned out.

He is the new companion of old Mr Walters. In the back garden we always had the two male ducks - Mr and Mr Walters. One of the Mr Walter's died last month - I hope from old age. He was finding it a bit difficult to get around. Like old Mr Walters young Mr Walters likes to come into the house and scare Pixie. Beezle is unbothered by finding two ducks in his house. At least they are alive and not like the rabbit I found professionally skinned on the doorstep this morning.


 As Beezle and Moses's wife would say "I have been a stranger in a strange land."



Pixie's interesting - oh sorry -VERY interesting fact is that adult pigs can run a seven minute mile.

Sadly I don't believe any of the pigs in the pig unit will have a chance to do this. A few years back a gang of them escaped and ran (probably at seven miles an hour) towards the woods. They had to be rounded up and I watched them being herded through the mist, their balls swinging and looking like sailors who had left their ship for the night and gone for some craic in the docks.


OK Beezle (see previous black mail post) You didn't give back the pound of sausages that you took so I'm putting up the picture of you in your new coat.

Also a picture of our garden flowers from last summer - a jewel like reminder that warmer weather is on its way.

Meanwhile here is a poem  about the pigs in the pig unit that I wrote a few years back. They come under the title of Freedom food. When I ask what that meant I was told freedom from hunger, freedom from disease and freedom from stress. Ha!



           Fork Lift


 Within the tin shed
little pink chops are fed
and prize pork pies,
bred for their improved size,
carry with pride
the label of animal welfare
on  their side.
Able to eat, as they please,
free from hunger
and free from disease.
No fear of Armageddon for gammon
or green back bacon,
no feeling of panic
in these ordered, organic lives
just pig like Stepford wives
just food
within the tin shed
no host or hostess
no stress, no Prozac in the strawsack
only double oats and men
in off white coats
as freedom food greets Sigmund Freud.

And when they leave to meet the knife,
serenaded by hired hands
playing Strauss on the mandolin,
only one pig sees
the colour s of summer
the ever stretching green fields
and blue skies, hears the fine
song of the sky lark
composed for a beautiful day
and wonders about her life,
these pearls before swine.
Then she joins the line
With her communard in lard

And the trucks roll away.

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