Winston's Friends

My human says the farm at night
Is peaceful, still and deep;
He ought to know, for every night
He fails to go to sleep.

He works all day in City glare,
Then New York has a go;
He shuts the laptop after twelve,
But brains don’t close, you know.

At one, the church bell gives one bong,
At two, it offers two;
At three, he checks the bedside clock
To see if this is true.

At four, he rearranges sheets
And mutters in the gloom;
I stretch my legs, roll on my back
And give him rather less room.

The foxes start their nightly row,
A dreadful carry-on;
You’d think a crime had taken place—
Then suddenly they’re gone.

An owl gives one considered hoot
And pauses in the gloom;
The sort of chap who says three words
Then dominates the room.

Then come the deer, a hungry crowd,
Who treat each fence as fun;
The garden’s planned with loving care—
By dawn, the lot is done.

The roses are a starter course,
Young apple trees are lunch;
They always eat the costly things
With quiet, thoughtful crunch.

My title’s Head of Security,
An office much respected;
The wages have not yet arrived,
As I had half expected.

At every noise I lift one ear
And make a measured call:
If I resume my sleep at once,
There was no risk at all.

So if you’re wakeful on the farm
As bells ring through the night,
Remember I am watching too—
My eyes are closed. That’s right.

Yet should the fridge door open once,
However soft the tread,
You’ll find the Head of Security
No longer in his bed.

— Winston, Chief Mud Correspondent, Night Watchman and Unpaid Poet-in-Residence

Today our Eddie’s eleven-ish,
A fact announced with pride;
I don’t know what eleven means,
But presents came inside.

I measure age in dinners served,
In walks and muddy paws;
But birthdays seem a splendid thing
Because there’s cake indoors.

The first surprise: a bicycle,
With gears and shining brake;
A clever way to leave the dog
Behind, by some mistake.

No basket built to fit my frame,
No biscuit drawer in sight;
I’ve sent the plans back to the shop.
They haven’t built it right.

Then came a Real Madrid kit,
In spotless Spanish white;
A brave choice on a Sussex farm—
But lovely for one night.

One dash across the lower field,
One enthusiastic skid,
And by the time he comes back home
He’ll play for Real Mudrid.

“Uno, dos, tres—¡Hala Madrid!”
He shouted down the hall;
I thought he counted dog treats out,
But none appeared at all.

A JBL arrived as well,
For music loud and clear;
A curious present for a boy
Whose voice we all can hear.

He says it works by Bluetooth,
A boast I find uncouth;
It may possess the Bluetooth bit,
But I possess more tooth.

He turns it up, the windows shake,
The owl departs its tree;
At least the foxes now have found
Someone as loud as me.

Eleven candles, one large cake,
With cards and birthday cheer;
I stationed myself underneath
In case crumbs should appear.

I waited with professional calm—
Not begging; that is rude.
I simply kept my eyes fixed hard
Upon the nearest food.

Now Eddie is my favourite boy,
For reasons plain to see:
He drops more crumbs than grown-up folk
And sometimes plays with me.

So happy birthday, Eddie lad—
Go cycle, sing and score;
Wear white before it turns to brown,
Then play that song once more.

“Uno, dos, tres—¡Hala Madrid!”
Let birthday music play;
I’ll guard the bike, inspect the cake
And bark the deer away.

— Winston, Head of Birthday Security, Bicycle Critic and Proud Supporter of Real Mudrid