The Grouse

Dear Sir

A special poem for this special day. I would like you to image a grouse, Gerry, and his pal, Larry, frolicking on a perfect August morning.

The moorlands vast rise up to the sky
‘gainst black-edged clouds the eagles fly
and Larry, my good friend and I,
run through the gorse.

A yellow sun will graze the burns
As, fading, it to winter turns
And dabbling ducks and happy terns
Splash in a pool.

Men’s shadows, long across the moor
The men so certain, calm and sure
Oh bugger – is that a 12-bore?
Run, Larry! Run!

Death, death death
Death, death, death
Death, death, death.

Wishing you a truly “Glorious Twelfth”

Melissa Sparrow (Mrs), The Hollow, Grilsby-on-the-Hill


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