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Collin and Kevin (Nubian and Alpine Goats and Pals)

Collin and Kevin (Nubian and Alpine Goats and Pals)

Article 5 Modern Times Musing June 20th 2017 (New)

It strikes me that of all the creatures that might have the devil about them, goats are not among them.  Consider the quizzically friendly and curious faces above, two companions in a local community farm who welcome human visitors and the accompanying bucket of treats that might be shared their way, along with the Chinese Geese, Vietnamese and Maori pot bellied micro pigs and an ineffably fluffy white rabbit,  whose twitching nose alone gives away what end is which and is, inevitably, called Snowy.  Horses and ponies large and small also grace the paddock.  But it is the goats who charm me, and it is Collin in particular, the nubian one, with his vast roman nose, an underhung jaw that gives him a constant sideways grin, drooping loppy ears and hopelessly knock knees, who convinces you that there can be no whiff of sulphur lurking in his nature.

No, that attribute belongs to mankind alone, as the endless dismal chain of recent tragic events announce grimly in what seems to be almost every news bulletin.  Deranged ones carrying out attacks on others with what passes for religious motivation in their deluded untended minds. A tower block going up in flames like a chinese lantern, as gerrybuilt as any deathtrap could be for the sake of saving on materials cost (and done anyway so that as in the late-lamented series "Brass", the rich, unlike Bradley Hardacre had to do, wouldn't have to look at the undesguised hovels of the poor while those folk had the far more pleasing view of his mansion).

It was said during the election campaign that Jeremy Corbyn was doing his best to bring back the seventies. Although he didn't win that election, something has brought back a summer like 1976 weather wise for now, which can be no bad thing, some proper heat and sun to cheer us up from the storm filled news fronts rolling in all the time on a daily basis.  And then, there are always Collin, Kevin and company to visit and feed by way of a little escapism and a sense of happier things going on around us.

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Two teddies are now

Both in my keeping,

Gifts to toddler grandchildren, us.

When new, Bruin was purple, larger,

With a deep growl.

My brother's.

Teddy was smaller, fawn,

Mine.

He lost his growl after an unfortunate fall 

And a sink bath.

I loved Teddy with a depth which included emotional guilt.

I was jealous because Bruin was bigger and purple

And  my own ted  must never know of that.

I was the oldest but the girl.

Perhaps that played into who got which bear.

Bruin is no longer purple,

Faded after decades on my brother's windowsills,

At home and in his flat.

For a few years now, both have looked down from

The high shelf beside my daughter's childhood raised bed.

They leaned together, slightly forward,

As if wanting to come down.

I climbed up to get them the other day and soon saw why.

Both lambswool, moths have pecked their back legs into small

bald patches.

It's been a poignant time as my mother has lately died too.

I felt I had let them down, the two teds, 

Neglected while cherished still.

I've dusted them off and put them on the coverlet

Of the single bed below,

Where they seem more contented, two old men together.

Better now, their worn little faces seem to say.