Breath of dragons fill the vale
curling round the trees
carding on the mountain firs and pines
the wool of lambs still strung on barbed wire fence
their eerie horns of rusty iron
among the bramble thorns
no smell save that of pungent leaves
or rotting timber piled
where wrens and robins nest

this damp parade so often comes at dawn
the cows sit silent even yawn
their patches matching those
of moss turned brown on stones
while up above the dragon hides in pale blue skies
his mocking laugh spills daffodils of sun
he's having fun at our expense

while damp our eyelids weigh
our heads bowed down
we critters in the towns
the fog horns blow their melancholy drone
lost is the world we've always known
changed by mysterious theatrical mists
into a mosquito bliss
preparing battle swords to tap our blood
when sunshine sallies forth and lights the flood

Margaret Ann Waddicor 4th May 2012.