by Ed Shacklee
I’ve never lived near lochs like Ness.
The lakes I like are stocked with less.
Their fens are penned. The glens are gleaned.
The geese are cooked. Their fish are cleaned.
Such lakes, bereft of boats and docks,
their size approved by Goldilocks,
are somewhat dry; their waves are ordered,
the grass close-cropped, the beaches bordered.
The sneak that snakes about in lochs,
though fierce and furtive as a fox,
is fortunate I stay indoors,
for monsters aren’t a match for bores.
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