Oon his han

I met a man the other day
Who’d come from Cesenatico way
Over the hills from Romagna two hours he drove
To our barn the woods and mushroom trove
I spied him decamping with fag and basket in hand
And later yet the locker full
From our golden bosky land
Finferla, a type of chanterelle
And stecchini dorate
But haste ye not
There’s more to tell
The only mushroom with needles on its undershell
If he’d told me his name
Was McGonnagall
Or Topaz as he liked to tell
I’d have sent him on his way
And for light was fading from the day
And never offered me a stem
But wished his beneficience
On Scotland’s land
His full basket of finferla oon his han.


( I know, I know. Not bad enough to be good. But the man did come and collect the ‘winter mushroom’. And we had a pleasant enough chat. Continued to clear the house. Shifted and shifted. As light faded cut out a register plate for the stove from fireproof plasterboard. A job and a half squeezing into the fireplace and more trips to the jigsaw than a tourist in Delhi (if you will - I have although more in the Kumoan hills).

An extra of offcut plasterboard

For more on William McGonnagall https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_McGonagall