Skip to main content

While Ye May…

Our kindly neighbour telephones from Brittany.
All’s well. He’s mown our lawn. He lacks our company.
One difficulty only (it’s the same each year):
‘Your plumping rosebuds have been gobbled by the deer.’

The first-world problem of a second home in France:
I’m tempted to reverse my anti-hunting stance.
The liberties those creatures take when we’re away!
A locked-down Londoner, ‘in city pent’, I say,

‘Why can’t wild animals find something else to eat?
There’s all that grass; what makes my roses such a treat?’
I sense his Gallic shrug. ‘I’m sorry for your waste.
Hélas, it seems French roe deer have exquisite taste.’