Making Bread

The plaid lay on his shoulders,
His kilt swayed ‘round his knees
As he left the flocks in the field to eat
A meal, he was more than ready for.
Mud flew from his boots
When he tromped to dine,
Sinking into a wooden chair with weary sigh
He eyed fish and fowl, cheese and bread, and smiled.
A snap of the finger set the mood,
As Harp began to play a tune
That would set the fair folk dancin’
‘cross the green glen.
Movement from the floor below,
Caused fork to leave both mouth and plate
The Golden Goose honked in dismay
And he threw back his chair in disbelief.
“Mèrlach! Thief!” His shout echoed ‘cross the room,
The wee man, caught red-handed, stumbled and fell
Allowing the precious goose to escape and leave,
A trail of feathers out the door.
Kneeling, one large hand snatched,
“Fe-fi-fo-fum! I smell the blood of a Sasanach

Englishman

!”
With a shake he took his uninvited guest to meet the baker
And grind his bones into bread.

Notes ▼

Written for: Once Upon a Contest
Prompt: free verse
24 lines