Price is for First British Serial Rights
Copyright © Linda Brinklow, 2019
FOLK ARE STRANGE.
Beautiful blue skied Autumn morn,
Walked dog and I, at crack of dawn.
As this is, the last day of our stay,
I think we’ll walk a different way.
A private road, a cul-de-sac,
Through brick pillared gates – no turning back.
No paths- just drives for residents.
Manicured lawns to curb side – not one fence.
A car pulls out – the driver “scowley face”,
Gets out and says
“You know the residents in this place,
Pay to keep this greenery.
Your dog – I saw it pee- on my garden tree.”
“There is no place to walk” says I,
I’m not familiar with this area- so that is why,
I couldn’t decide just where to tread.
Should we walk in the road instead?”
He huffed- got in his car and drove away.
The dog and I, we did not care to stay.
Instead we took a right hand turn.
Thought I, “Oh! Well. You live and learn.”
A white painted garden seat.
A triangular patch of grass with trees; So very neat.
Said I to dog – “I’ll rest a while”.
The dog, thought the idea really spiffing,
She spent her whole time, post and bush and trees stump sniffing.
Loomed a brown horse – with rider seated.
Rider – yellow jacketed
And horse –with matching leg bands completed.
“Good Morning”, the rider greeted us with a smile,
“A lovely day to rest a while”
She waived and let the paper boy cycle past.
I got up and waived- we should be turning home at last.
Proceeding further on our way,
A van- shot out from a drive- as if to say,
“We residents, we own this hole,
Your dog should be better under control”
The road ends here. There is a gate.
The dog, still walking on the verges,
Sees little models of peeing dogs,
Just where the road and path converges,
She must have read the messages,
And understood just what it said,
She promptly set herself down,
ON THE ROAD.
Copyright © Isle Arts 2019