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