Right Beds

Poor little Zion has been quite unwell with a fever ever since last night, but we decided to visit the Anemas' farm anyway, as he kept saying he wanted to see the tractor... he was amused at this cat climbing up on it. An extra of our three on the hay bales.

Poem today is "The Wrong Beds" by Roger McGough, which begins, Life is a hospital ward... and ends:

Anywhere but here. We take our medicine daily,
nod politely, and grumble occasionally.
But it is out of our hands. Always the wrong place.
We didn't make our beds, but we lie in them.

Obviously, today, it is easy to be glad to be exactly where I am; may I continue to be glad when they've gone... May we all fully inhabit whatever bed we've been placed on and not waste a moment wishing we were elsewhere.