Poetry Corner

A Fowler's Lament

Oh, hear me now, my woeful tale:
For tho' I tramp o'er hill and dale,
And closely search each bosky vale
I seldom, ever, see a quail.

Eftsoons, my lad, no time to wail
I'm off to land of fen and swale
Among the reeds, a cryptic trail . . .
Perhaps, God's fate, a goodly rail?

Such bird as that I seek to nail --
Hold fast, a glimpse, is that a male?
Forsooth, tis mere its ebbing tail
Why, forever, my lot to fail?

No matter how I seek the Grail
My fitful strivings to naught avail
My eyes so weak, must need I Braille . . .
What say you, Pilgrim -- spyglass for sale?

Penned of late by Sir Guy of Moles-eye Manor aka The Ancient Mariner