An early PONburst of energy. Collar doves chased, the garden checked for c-a-t-s : the word that must never be spoken aloud. We turn right out of the far gate. Sophie watches the donkeys, gives the goats a cursory glance to make sure they're behaving and is nearly scared out of her skin by three horses that wander over to the fence to see her. She and her brother have been busy exploring something malodorous in the drainage ditch and haven't seen them walking towards them. Bob sensibly comes and stands behind my legs and glares at them. Sophie scampers round and takes up a back stop position behind him. Her 'Don't worry about a thing Bob. I'm here ' position.
In the PONs defence I would say that from down at lane level the three young horses high on the bank must look quite intimidating.
The horses trot amiably alongside us as we turn and head for home. Sophie waits until we've got back to The Rickety Old Farmhouses gate, then stops, turns and emits one shrill bark. The horses have been told in no uncertain terms who controls this village. She then sprints into the house and makes a beeline for the kitchen.
Here's a poem by the 'Twitter' poet Brian Bilston for this Sunday morning. Who'd have thought Twitter would become an art form ?