This is a sheep. She is wreathed in glory & goosegrass and it seems to sit well with her position in life, which is eating her way through stuff higher than her head, in a graveyard. She is happy in her pelt and has no problem with self-image & knows no fear and is expecting some nuts from the human whose outline she recognises. I think if she were human she'd wear pearls to do the hoovering & would eat cake for breakfast and buy supermarket birthday cakes at random for people who just liked the candles & the jellytots but were too hung up on only-doing-that-on-your-birthday to have that fun more than once a year. Because. She would also be quite determined. Slight autistic spectrum there, then. Saintly in a mild sort of way. Cool auntie.
I started this because I stumbled not on melons but on a random blog from someone on the other side of the world. She was going on about food & what it meant to her to cook for people she loved in varying degrees. I found this at variance with what I knew of her. The last time I think I saw her she was in a cupboard on the other side of the world, crowing absentmindedly like a chicken, with an aversion to anything food-like & an un-nerving ability to do that French Lieutenant's Chick- sorry, Woman pose, with immense poise, if anyone said 'Rosie - come out of that cupboard Right Now, d'y'hear?'
B'gark. How times do change. We made up for it by having an entire intercontinental phonecall the other week in chicken. b'oorrhh - Tuk - Tuk - - - - B'gArk -. And understood each other perfectly.
There was a poem about a man with a wooden tongue who spent most of his well pissed off because noone could understand him, which was a double bind. He solved it by vanishing from the haunts of men & ending up in a swamp where the frogs understood him 'and with that he was content.' He coulda done worse. Happiness is not intelligent. Not waving but

time for another picture.
This is of an old church and some daffodils. In another few months the sheep will be in laying waste to shoulder-high nettles, which they won't eat 1st because of the other yummy stuff like goosegrass and herb robert and queen anne's lace. Neither will they apply their bony little palates to the thistles, until someone cuts up their food for them with a scythe. In Yorkshire that's called a Lye (true) and it's better than a strimmer, which is noisy & heavy & you have to keep replacing the string, especially working between the stones. The trick, as I was told, is to keep th'arse down. Works for me.
I suppose in some parts of the world it's coming on autumn. Back end. I know this because I get messages on Christmas Day from friends (I use the term loosely) who are txting me from the beach at New Zealand & are getting sunstroke (bastards) whilst I'm there at midnight with the wind whistling in from the Urals, safely gathered in with me hotty. Just for them, here's a picture from another time. And perversely, I Like this one, though the daffs are jolly & uplifting, right enough -
but this one is chilly and it's Going to get Worse tonight, when those fluffy pink clouds come in.
And the sheep & her mates will be living in something looking like the Somme, being foddered with mud everywhere & the occasional tooth & bugger all else to eat except the dessicated remains of last summer.
I meantime am going to saunter off, trailing clouds of glory, in search of a cup of tea. Perhaps tonight I shall go to sleep with my boots on, in bed with my feet sticking out between the rails. Tiddly widdly Mrs Tittlemouse. Oh Ribby - I am distracted. B'gArk.