Pastorale of little pink pigs

Dawn is approaching in the east.

Her touch awakens man and beast,

the smallest rose and the least

bud of mimosa.

Along the path a peasant lad

with a long stick in his hand,

leads out a ragged band:

les cochons roses.

The charming pink, that special hue

which in the east comes into view

and drapes the clouds anew

with subtle splendour

is not so sweet a sight, I think,

for my delighted eyes to drink

as the swine in their silky pink

so soft and tender.

As the breeze which gently blows

carries to every nose

the scent of wild berry and rose

wafting and straying,

the piglets frolic free

with the cheeky vivacity

and the charming temerity

of toddlers playing.

They play like chubby happy babes.

They fill the green and flowery glades

with squeals and the pastel shade

of rosy prawn.

Each body full of health and food

is so rosy it appears nude

like a Cupid baring a cute

and rounded belly.

Freckles of black upon the pink

provide a subtle visual link

with truffles, and make one think:

pâté or brawn.

Each piglet's rapid trotting gait

creates a wave at such a rate

as to cause its flab to vibrate

just like a jelly.

The boy in the loose blue smock

leads along the gurgling brook.

They follow in a noisy flock.

all snorting gaily.

And as it trots, each little pork

takes its hindquarters for a walk

and twirls a curly stalk:

one corkscrew taily.

Then when the crickets' gentle whine

and the church's melancholy chime

announce that now the cooler time

of sunset nears,

they return along the lane

back to the sty in which their day began,

each waving still the double fan

of two pink ears.

And when the light has left the west,

eyes close of man and beast,

the finest rose and the least

bloom of mimosa.

Peacefully round their wooden trough,

having roamed and frisked enough,

bellies full, they all doze off,

les cochons roses.