‘A Winter’s Tale’ by Jeff Eardley

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A Winter’s Tale

There’re many strange and spooky tales,
That come from England’s hills and dales.
When Winter tightens up its grip,
As feet and fingers start to slip.

For on a cold December day,
I ventured on the upland way,
A spell of solace for to find,
From Worldly worries on my mind.

But clouds came streaming from the West,
With stinging rain, I did my best
To keep a straight and steady track.
There was no chance of going back.

By then, my vision went askew,
I stood, not knowing what to do.
As to the storm, I turned to shout,
“My glasses’ lens has fallen out.”

I searched in vain around that spot,
But could I find it? I could not.
My lens was lost and gone for good,
All swallowed up by English mud.

And so, alas, I turned around,
Descending to the nearby town.
I turned to gaze from off the bridge,
“My lens is somewhere on that ridge.”

It rested there till Summertime,
Emerging from the Winter slime.
My lens, which from the mud did peep,
Was noticed by a passing sheep.

Now sheep, they say, from rams to ewes,
Are not possessed of high IQs.
It picked the lens from off the ground,
Then licked its lips and wolfed it down.

It rested in this creature’s gut,
Till Autumn, when this sheep was put
Into a trailer heading for,
A far off, distant abattoir.

This factory that never stops,
Converted him to juicy chops,
Delivered to my local store,
I stepped inside and purchased four.

My chops now sizzled in the pan,
As supper for this hungry man.
I sliced the first with tender care,
But guess what I discovered there?

My lens, it had returned that day,
Once lost upon that upland way.
I danced across the room with glee,
So pleased, again, that I could see.

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Jeff Eardley lives in the heart of England near to the Peak District National Park and is a local musician playing guitar, mandolin and piano steeped in the music of America, including the likes of Ry Cooder, Paul Simon, and particularly Hank Williams.