The Grouse.
Standing motionless on frosted rock,
it’s iridescent plumage takes my breath away.
It’s sparkle tingles with the frosts,
as the sunrise heralds a new born day.
Flyaway Grouse make your way,
subdue your screeching call.
For shooters hunt for you today,
t’is not the time for your display,
pride comes before a fall.
Oh noble bird, food of kings,
launch yourself across the heather.
Fan your tail and spread your wings,
to roam the moors forever.
Deny the rich their supper,
remain, as you should be.
Left to roam the Scottish moors,
so beautiful and free.
By Dr Fogg
© 2011 Dr Fogg
(All rights reserved)
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