baa, black-faced sheep, island mist and heather,
of midges and the lousiest of weather.
Daddy wants to photograph a birdie on its nest
tells me that I will enjoy the quiet and the rest.
baa, black-faced sheep, we’ve been through this before,
car is parked with gadget bags and cameras galore,
seems as big as cannon, and miles of Kodachrome.
looks as if we’ll need to leave the baby back at home.
baa, black-faced sheep, isn’t it a hoot,
no room for my slippers, but we’ve got his hob-nail boots;
anoraks and waterproofs for every kind of weather,
lipsticks and cosmetics are missing altogether.
baa, black-faced sheep, this year, Dad’s made a hide,
tatty at the edges, but it’s twenty-six feet wide,
when the kids go near it he wears a worried frown
they sing “A Ring o’ Roses” and it ALL FALLS DOWN.
baa, black-faced sheep, it really is absurd,
grown-up man a-photographing little baby birds;
when the films are processed he’ll gloat over them for weeks,
boost his ego showing them to Natural History freaks.