Ducks have relented

At last the remnants of the snow have gone from all the hills in the immediate vicinity and the sun has shone for several days.
One very welcome extra benefit of this is that the ducks have stopped sulking about the weather [they hate snow and will spend hours in the freezing stream rather than sit on it] and have started to lay. There is rejoicing all round as there are enough for friends who like them and also for me to sell at the market.
Also recently someone gave me another white drake who will hopefully turn out to be more effective than Sir Francis, who has not produced a single offspring in two years.
The gentleman in the picture above is long gone, not Sir Francis. This is Llewelyn and here follows a poem about him and his family,

Feathered Paternity

Llewelyn Fawr is very grand

And knows exactly how to stand

To look imposing,

Which is most important to a drake

Who needs the ladies to impress

And to have a harem

Of enthusiastic mother ducks

For future generations’ sake.

His feathers are a gleaming white

And his beak canary yellow.

His wings, though not in use for flight,

He cleans with infinite care,

Feather by flawless feather.

His feet are golden triangles

That plod majestic through the mud

Like shoes of magic leather.

His wives are speckly coloured

With sapphire in their wings.

Much of their day they spend

Hunting for interesting things,

Snails and slugs and such delights,

Until, in need of change, they wend

Their way to pond or stream, upend

Themselves and dabble there

For frog spawn, fish eggs, dainty bites

To be found in mud below, while

Feet wave freely in the air.

At night the ladies to their nests repair

And lay their eggs all white or green

And hide them under leaves and grass

From beady eyes of crows who pass,

Searching like spy planes from the air.

Then comes the day, one gets the urge

And snuggles down upon the eggs,

With beak on breast, deep in feathers,

And sits for weeks midst yellow flags

Oblivious of inclement weather,

Just waiting till she hears a peep,

And one by one small beaks emerge.

When all are free of broken shells and dry,

She leads them forth in one long line

To float upon the stream, chasing flies

Invisible to human eyes,

Flashing, dashing everywhere,

Propelled by tiny feet

Under mother’s watchful eye,

Turned skywards lest hawk or crow

Descend upon her little fleet.

Llewelyn past them softly glides,

Bursting with parental pride.