By Jack Gates
The birds twitter in the trees along the bowered walk,
their morning songs calling out for a new mate.
Their chatter is intelligent, just like human talk,
freshly preened, ruffling feathers enhance their gait.
A red coated vixen fox coughs angily at a wayward cub,
her long bushty tail snaps sharply at its extreme tip.
A blackbird plays tug-of-war with a big fat grub,
drinking robins, crane their necks loftily each time they sip.
Unseen spiders-webs ticklishly mask ones face,
my dogs aimlessly chase a rabbit to its burrow.
An old bycycle wheel looking sadly out of place,
a tractor turning green grass into a brown furrow.
Distant drumming, noisy lorries out on the trunk road,
gasses from their exhausts badly mar the morning air.
Chokingly enhancing the croak of a jumping toad,
in the meadow a back-firing exhaust startled a hare.
Walking, is a pastime we should take advantage of and enjoy,
we must never forget the countryside is a gifted heritage.
It has been a pleasure to me from when I was a boy,
yes, fellow walkers, even now, in my twilight age.
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