Although
it’s a hard row to hoe
a rough furrow to harrow
and a tough trench to plough
there’s many a meadow to mow
I hereby avow
and tho' it may be news to you
farmers have the need
to sow their seeds
where milkmaids milk the cows
swineherds feed their sows
and shepherds have their pie
and eat it too
in Slough now
aka Droit du seigneur
Two milkmaids confessed to a nun
The work of priests is never done
Though Dick is quick
Peter is thick
And both are an whole lot of fun!
The Vale of Peace
It is overcast in the valley and rounded hills, luckily there
is no coal here no slag heaps, disfigure the quit scenery;
this is quieter now than before, people only drive when
they must, in time of austerity and high gasoline prices.
The wind is acerbic and in no mood to be nice, although
it blows from the south, which often gives a lovely aroma
of milkmaids breaths, contented, cream drinking cats and
engaging, giggly love amongst hey stacks.
The shepherd and his flock cross the road, he has a dark
outdoor face, craggy as a volcanic mountain and it carries
a melancholic mien of one, who spends much time alone,
and his sheep look as terracotta figures in fading light.
Wooly -backs are not known for being conversationalists;
except for bleating now and then they eat. I turn also this
is not a day for walks, better lit the fire be contemplative
and gently subdued on this overcast day.
The bottles sat, empty, clean,
timelessly transparent upon the purity
of a chalk walkway;
antiquated memories
of morning milkmen linger.
The hollow hourglass shapes
lacking the grains of time,
reflecting, and refracting lemon light
dollops of cream, buttermilk dreams.
Devon Red herds await
the bottles empty state,
to fill with froth, to zing tin pails,
to drowse to the lilt of a milkmaids’ aire.
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