[Jim Hayes]

Apologies Martin, seems like I arrived in Orkney just after you.

The ravens' noisy matings in my trees
disrupt our Sunday lie-ins with their calls,
then in the garden I’m on hands and knees
planting spuds while drenched in bloody squalls.
The daffodils show off their strumpet heads--
I note their plot needs weeding and attention,
the slugs are lunching in my seedling beds
with weevils, bugs and mites, their bloody henchmen.
The moss has grown, the bloody grass has riz,
the missus wants the patio hosed down.
I bloody don’t know where the washer is--
most likely nicked as I bought plants in town.
As far as I’m concerned make Spring taboo.
No more icumin in. Bugger cuckoo.