Out & About …

… on the North York Moors, or wherever I happen to be.

Two months to the Glorious Twelfth

While mother hen feigns an injured wing
tempting me off the dusty track,
and flying fast and low above the ling,
the cock screams ‘Go back, go back, go back’
their moorfowl chick lies perfectly still
but in just two months ready for the kill.




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