The Cottage on the Moor is a place where I'll keep a fire going on cold winter nights and a breeze flowing through the windows on steamy summer days. There will be a "cup of warm" waiting for you to stimulate your mind. I'll try to keep it fresh by adding something every now and then. So come often. I hope you find it worth your while.
My new, new-fangled phone
always crashes when I’m in a toot,
or when, entangled; I am prone
to end the critter’s life beneath my boot;
send it mangled to its hellish home,
when – calmly – I should just . . . reboot.
It is May 9th and I have yet to see my first
I don’t doubt that they have returned in numbers
but my travels these days are, shall we say, “urban”
not calibrated to bring me near red-breasted plumbers.
But I did see my first fly of the season,
a heavy matronly fly, no doubt coming
into the concert intent on finding the reason
doors stood open and welcoming.
She arrived I believe, during Berger’s, “The Banks of Spey,”
drew attention away from the “Short Overture for Strings,”
joined an “impromptu” rendition of, “Happy birthday!”
and after “L’Olimpaide” and “Rhosymedre,” left, applauding.
Such culture in a fly with a belly full of maggots
is indeed unusual, and gives one some hope for the world we
Still – I plead that my preference is not that of a bigot –
I’d trade the buzz of a “cultured fly” in a flash for the chirp of an ordinary Robin