A Squeal

By John Aldred

A squeal and a thud
She's down in the mud
A howl as she clips a stile
And lands in that well known pile
Left by such unthinking cattle.

A squawk, a skid a loose stone stumble
Guarantees another tumble
A cry as she misses her stride
Slips, bruising her pride
As well as unmentionable parts.

A call as she is left behind
By an old man with odd things on his mind.
A wail means we've lost the trail
He needs the map printing in Braille
And be attached to a baby's rattle.

When the old, deaf and blind lead
Things go wrong, we end in a field of swede
There is always the day when we don't get far
Forgotten flask, gloves or map and back to the car
Someday we'll achieve trouble free starts.

Copyright 1999 John Aldred