One of the new piglets
was limping – a broken leg?
Two others were trying to shove it away
from the feeding trough.
Three legs were not enough.
The piglet toppled over.
Four minutes later, up in the hamlet,
a farmer-lady in her garden told us where the pig-farmer lived:
Five houses further down, just past the bend.
It was just gone
six, so someone was preparing supper
behind the kitchen window. We rang. “No. Number
7 is my son’s house, not here.” said the elderly lady,
“But don’t worry, I’ll go tell him myself.”
Eight minutes on I was home, telling the story
to our sons who had first spotted the new pigs. The cat just listened.
(Nine lives – was she really grinning?) “Sometimes,”
said the younger boy, “glee would be easier than compassion.”
‘Ten out of ten,’