Riding and winding around bendy lanes,
Scattering pheasants and other feathered game.
Turning and churning and spluttering fumes,
Aloft Bowland's Trough, dew-soaked in the rain.
The soft sun shines through but battles in vain,
As Lancashire's autumn drums a dreich tune.
Splattering moorhens and rattling the loons,
While Canada's geese stumble ski-jumper's gait.
'Gainst battering wind the sodden cows brace,
Heathered hills, harsh, and bleak for the cattle.
The sheep, though woolen, still solemnly bleat,
Longing for comfort, a warm hearthy place.
But I, gladly, smell sweet cinnamon apple,
While warm on the sofa, wrapped up, life's a treat.
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