Yet another darned poem.

After all the excitement of my birthday I had a quiet weekend but I'm still healing - I've been walking a bit, which is good.

I watched 'Countryfile', which I normally can't stand. I enjoyed a piece on an art project in Exmoor. This involved leaving tins in beauty spots and asking people to leave a poem in the notebook inside.

Most of the poems dealt with the beautiful views, the passing of the seasons, life.......that kind of thing.

My favourite was this one and I'm afraid they didn't mention the name of the poet so I can't credit him. I assume it's a him, because his name is probably 'Dave'.

                                  Roses are red.
                                  My names Dave.
                                  I don't get poetry.
                                  Microwave.

Neil Harris
(a don't stop till you drop production)
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