by Max Akroyd
This tiny farm is asleep.
Except at feeding times, when hot porridge is consumed with gusto, even the most restless of the mammals living here are now resigned to the wintry nature of things. The big pink pig – being the most refined by breeding – stroppily pushes her feeding trough around, but soon gives up her protest and settles down in her straw to a grumbling day-long slumber. The pot-bellied studs who were in a frenzy about this voluptuous new neighbour have had even their ardour sufficiently chilled to relax into their tatty teenagers’ bed. By contrast, the mummy pigs have sculpted a perfect, volcano-shaped nest in their straw: the piglets have been nudged into the funnel and the sisters encircle them, lying nose to nose.
Fortunately for us, the hens remain busy and give us a couple of beautiful gifts each day:
With no soil to play with today, I’ve reluctantly joined the soporific concensus, watching the hours pass and dreaming of spring.