Windy day, Waimea

Beyond the ranges,

the old dog is at it again

tearing up his blanket –

that tatty sheep-skin rug

he was given as a bed –

tossing the raggedy pieces

over the hills carelessly

as though they were nothing

but cloud tufts.

They fly eastwards

on the wild and cheeky wind

laughing silently to themselves

at the fun of it all.