In Memory Of Mum And Her Little Fly

This post is in response to Rima at the hermitage ( flies and time post) A couple of weeks back, she had a morning encounter with a fly that she kindly rescued from the dregs of her previous nights cocoa remains. Her tale reminded me of the time that my own dear Mum did the same, heroically saving a fly from the yorkshire pudding mixture, one Sunday many years ago.
She wrote this rhyming verse about it and I thought I'd share it.

Now here's the sad tale of a poor little fly,
Grab hold of your hankie....it might make you cry.
Now my story begins on a Sunday in May,
I remember it clearly.....t'was roast beef that day.
Now the meat was near cooked, I had all things in hand,
So I mixed up me yorkshire and put it to stand.
I whistled a tune as I peeled all the spuds...
And topped all the carrots, and scraped off the mud.
When all of a sudden.. I chanced to e- spy
On the bowl of me yorkshire, this tiny young fly.
He was so full of life... oh so happy and gay,
And doing no wrong in his own little way.
No more than a baby he skipped round the brim,
Did two double handstands...then tripped and fell in!
Oh you poor little thing, I sobbed and I cried
Being drowned in a yorkshire is no way to die!
I spoke softly to him... to allay any fears,
But I doubt if he heard me...with two battered ears
I struggled to save him , going fast to his doom
When he bravely grabbed hold of the end of me spoon.
Then with tissues and water, and various things,
I wiped his small face and unclogged his poor wings.
He looked wet and forlorn and he started to shiver,
So I carried him in, with the aid of a ladle,
To dry in the sun, on the dining room table.
I felt quite a hero having saved this poor mite
And guessed he 'd fly off...once over his fright.
Well you can't feel the hero for long with my bunch,
They'd soon be in shouting " I'm starving! when's lunch?"
So back to the kitchen, the pans and the pots,
With so much to do, it was all soon 'forgot'.
It wasn't till later when we sat down to eat,
I related the tale of my heroic feat.
" And did he fly off Mum?" asked my youngest, wide eyed
"Oh yes" I said proudly...my chest puffed with pride,
"I expect he's gone home to his Mum then" she said
"And tonight he'll be back in his own little bed"

What a nice little story......that poor little fly,
What a nice happy ending ...I hear you all cry.
Well thats what my kids thought, cos I never was able
To tell them how later...when I cleared the table,
That this hero...quite sadly, I have to relate,
Had squashed the poor fly, neath her own dinner plate.

By Margaret Davis
1937 -2006