The Herdsman

[R. Broath]

Twice a day the little herd paraded, quiet as a funeral, past the house. The bones of their hindquarters flexed on skin glistening with subtle movement; each step a fascinating mobile of articulated grandeur. Veins on swaying udders shone blue as rivers on a map. A liquid slap of clap on tarmac punctuated their steady gait.

Sean, the herdsman, flailed the air with his rude stick, signifying his command of the lumbering column.

'Gerrow,'
'Whaa, there.'

These nonsense words, like the redundant stick, implied authority. His charges, pink tongues poking at wet nostrils, ignored the timid words and plodded on, flanks twitching. Soft moos anticipated the relief of milking.

He was the skinny, unsmiling, son of the farmer. When he spoke, which wasn't often, a palate defect gave his words a nasal airiness. We burlesqued his thin sound with our high voices.

'Splahh ow that.'

'Snarr. Snam, there.'

'S' words, ventilated through our noses, echoed Sean's fricative difficulties.

'Nnfock off,' he'd shout. His temper failed to spike the air, his roar soft as wind through whin.

He shouted again, swishing his stick at a loose stone. His voice trailed off , realising we relished the sound of his broken ranting.

'Nnfock off, Shnon', we'd bellow from our gorse green hideaway.
'Ssnake them ncows home, an' nnfock off yourself.'

One day, a silent aloofness greeted our shouts, spoiled the game. Our unfunny impersonations ceased. Cast down silences marked his triumph and our shame.

Afterwards, only the pleasant tick and plock of hoof on tarmac accompanied his quiet toil.

[David]

This might seem exotic to some, Jimmy, but it just seems like home life to me. Beautifully captured.

Cheers

David

[R. Broath]

Home life to me, too, David. The little row of ten houses still stands and back then it was on the very edge of town. Sean was a real person and only died a few years ago. Glad to report that we were friends and the incident as reported did not involve this particular delinquent. Thanks for the read and kind remarks.

Jimmy

[Raisin]

I loved this, on holiday in France we have a herd of cows that shamble past every day, only difference is that the farmer and his wife yell in French instead

[R. Broath]

Thanks for reading, Raisin, and pleased you found it enjoyable. I wonder do French cows moo in a French accent. I'm sure some Gallic department has investigated the matter and pronounced that French mooing is sacrosanct and available for a grant.

Jimmy

[David]

Thanks for reading, Raisin, and pleased you found it enjoyable. I wonder do French cows moo in a French accent. I'm sure some Gallic department has investigated the matter and pronounced that French mooing is sacrosanct and available for a grant.

I think they go meu, meu.

[Raisin]

Actually that's the sheep! they go "meure meure" (might be spelt wrong), which is French for blackberry, we discovered this when we were walking past a field opposite a blackberry patch and it sounded like they were asking for the fruit

What do you call a cow with eight legs?

A li moo san