The goats are coming down from the hills
In from the dense thickets,
From the cold sharp streams
And the rocky peaks and pastures
That for so long have been their shrinking domain
To overrun now the ring roads and the roundabouts
To occupy suburban back gardens
And vandalise the striplings newly planted
Round perimeters of pupil-free primary schools.
Yes, the goats are coming down from the hills
Down to reclaim their lost low territories
And looking on from a vantage place on the hillside
Are the twins Pablo and Pan laughing approval
The former furiously sketching the chewed transgressions
While the latter pipes a wild celebratory jazz.
Carl Farrell compulsively writes short poems and occasionally short fiction. He likes to read widely in several languages, but is increasingly drawn to the lyrical and life-affirming, albeit with elements of grit. He grew up in Nottingham, where he now lives, but spent most of his twenties in Greece.