How rude!

So I was posing quietly among the daffodil shoots yesterday afternoon, thinking lyrical Nature Friday thoughts about new life emerging at this time of year, and about how in these high latitudes we must be patient and wait a little longer than most for our spring blooms to appear.

When along came this rude fellow and quite disturbed my poetic reverie. 

I'll be frank with you, my animal instincts took over, and I felt compelled to make quite clear my (distinctly unpoetical) views on his intrusion.

Happy Nature Friday friends! And once again fondest thanks to our lovely friends Jakey, Arty, Rosy and Sunny, for hosting the blog hop.

 

The decomposing hare

Isn't it strange how some subjects are considered suitable ones on which to flex one's poetic muscles, and others are not?

Take last Saturday's walk for example. OK so I was happy enough to wax all lyrical about the glorious freedom to roam the Aberdeenshire hills (see previous post) but what I really wanted to commemorate was another aspect of the walk entirely.

I was getting some way towards describing in verse by far the most thrilling aspect of the day's outing when Gail stopped me firmly and said, "Bertie this is absolutely not all suitable."

I hope you'll agree she was being unfair....

How fine it is to sniff
A decomposing hare,
Oh what a pungent whiff,
Just nothing can compare.

I raced across the heath,
And there I found, its rank
And fetid guts hid right beneath
A gorse bush on a bank.

They lay before me in a state
Of sumptious putrefaction.
When Gail caught up it was too late,
I'd gorged to my full satisfaction.

When further on the walk I tried 
To kiss Gail with my slime smeared nose,
She backed away in horror, cried,
"UGH BERTIE, DO NOT COME SO CLOSE!"

Bertie branches out into literary criticism

Here at Human Granny's we have been been going through the cupboards and Gail found a poem, one she was fond of as a child but had forgotten all about:

Lone Dog

Irene McLeod

I'm a lean dog, a keen dog, a wild dog and lone,
I'm a rough dog, a tough dog, hunting on my own!
I'm a bad dog, a mad dog, teasing silly sheep;
I love to sit and bay the moon and keep fat souls from sleep.

I'll never be a lap dog, licking dirty feet,
A sleek dog, a meek dog, cringing for my meat.
Not for me the fireside, the well-filled plate,
But shut the door and sharp stone and cuff and kick and hate.

Not for me the other dogs, running by my side,
Some have run a short while, but none of them would bide.
O mine is still the lone trail, the hard trail, the best,
Wide wind and wild stars and the hunger of the quest. 


I'm sure you are eagerly awaiting my opinions on the literary merits of these three short verses.

Well it is my considered view that this Ms McLeod has set up what I believe is known as a 'false antithesis'. As anyone has met me will already be aware, it is quite possible both to be a lean, tough dog AND a lap dog. Oh and by the way, what is wrong with a well-filled plate?

Other than that, I guess the poem is fine.

Why is Gail saying perhaps stick to the science Bertie?