COLLECTING THE EGGS

COLLECTING THE EGGS

By Frances Harris

 

The nest I gave you late last week,
Is soft and dry to rest your beak,
Its filled with hay, and very safe,
I found no egg in any place.

The vines are clear, I checked the wood,
My nerves are frayed, and that’s not good,
My basket’s empty, you don’t care,
You see me searching everywhere,

I can’t ask you, I'll have to say,
You lift your head and turn away,
I hear you call, but I’m too late,
By then you’re standing at the gate,

I really want to bake a cake,
There is not time, I cannot wait,
I’m feeling sick, I feel a fool,
Is it because the weather’s cool?

My mother phoned, she’s on the way,
She’s bringing Dad, and Aunty Fay,
I really need a cake to make,
It must be soon, I’m running late,

Now I have to sweep the floor,
I hear them knocking at the door,
Father, mother Aunty Fay,
Nothing more, it’s under way,

Father asks about the cake,
‘No Dad, we’re having turnip bake.’