Lord Byron


Every year the weather’s unusual. Stepping from my bed in the dark I crack the stem of my pipe. Directing milk jets into a plastic bucket I’m distracted for a second and a hoof of polished ebony shifts stance and tips the white foam on the earth. That stand of timber all had pipes (only good for a collection of giant didgeridoos). Nothing runs to plan. Last year who guessed wool would ride so high? Could a horseman on the plains of Asia foresee the numbers of man gone wild? My father still can’t see (he won’t listen) by fencing his large paddock in three his sheep strip each section in turn and the feed won’t grow back. We must plan for flaws (holes to see the sky or a white horse). Each generation looks into a new rift, and history doesn’t repeat, as I amputate the odd tit of a cow with five tits.

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