The sheep have gotten out again.
Scattered in every direction
like fevered, egg-fossicking tots,
maddened by Easter collection,
oblivious to descending wrath,
bloody lawnmoving autobots.

Some are up the laneway
bleating- elated to the cows
who are high-hump-tailed indignant
that the blighters seem allowed
to nonchalantly smug-browse
the out-of-bounds to bovine buffet.

They've flocked to the paddock set aside
for generating this year's seed,
the forty acres that were cropped
and so were owed a decent breather*.
They are speed-greedy gleefully
threshing with seed-stripping teeth.

They've collected in the formal garden
developing a pert taste for exotica,
their rolling-eyed delight, pure erotica
a tentative nip of enticing rose hip,
an indulgent bite of Japonica -pests!
Nothing escapes their questing lips.

Too late, I catch them at their game,
having long and leisurely showered,
I stand at window, impotently rage,
naked and dripping and disempowered,
the marauding mob strut unimpressed
by lurid-blue cursing and glowering.

Only one thing for it, scramble bike,
enemy angling* for Mullungdung*.
Though still sopping, force on strides,
slip on a t-shirt, headlights on high,
round up the buggers, ride, ride, ride.
                                   Half hour later,
stagger in, stupefied.

Breather - a rest

Enemy angling - a kind of pun of Battle of Britain code (for want of a better word) - enemy angels 35 for example, meant enemy aircraft at altitude 35,000 feet.

Mullungdung - The state forest behind our property.

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