From “Cotswold Nostalgia”
Our boys should see where I had spent
my youth – so we decide
to visit England, and present
some of its charms. (Beside –
I hope to fill a fell intent:
walk in the countryside.)
Each year the Cotswold sheep return –
the older ones repeat
the actions they perform to earn
their keep – keep hillsides neat –
skills that the younger ones must learn
and also – how to bleat.
Our younger son comes to the view
they are not up to par,
keeping his eye on mother ewe,
he sidles from afar,
teaching the lambs what they must do
to voice the phoneme “baa.”
They need correction of mistakes –
that is his guiding thought –
he vocalizes for their sakes
so they’ll bleat as they ought.
If they don’t want to sound like fakes,
they must be strictly taught.
The Cotswold paths range wide and free,
affording usufruct.
For fruits of walking them to be
most pleasurably plucked
and sucked to full capacity,
a parent must instruct.
Specific rules must be obeyed
to join our walking club:
always be sure to seek the shade
when shoes begin to rub,
and find a “stand for lemonade”
(as the boys call the pub.)
“We don’t need hiking discipline,
obeying walk to rule!
No child need labour to begin
peripatetic school!”
Coaching the lambs is lesser sin –
father’s the greater fool.
