High above desk-jockey Cardiff

the wild wind

from the heights of Gwyngachu,

sweeps over the ruminant chomp

of a mutinous herd of nil.

Below them, the sharp-suited nilherds

insinuate up from the city

dragging their ledgers and pens

for the annual nil return.

Nil, wild-eyed and woolly,

pent in a furry fury

at the nilherd’s final demands,

stamp in a sweep to the slope-edge:

horns lowered,

hides steaming,

hooves pounding

they charge…

Ah!  Nihilist nil,

nil desperandum.

Bannockburn dreaming –

this is their Balaclava –

heroic but futile,

impetuous thunder

and ultimate payment.

Pens open and ready,

braced with crossed ledgers

and steelily smiling,

the nilherds encircle

to make their nil capture.

For this year there’s no nil return.

While the nilherds are snoring

wrapped warm in their nilpelts

the nil strain – tight pressed

in a circlet of steel.

Haunch-heaving and panting

they dream of their freedom,

of succulent grass

on the heights of Gwyngachu.

They jostle and press ’til,

abrading the bolt-rust,

they burst through their binding

like overwound springs;

nilly-willy their horns reap

the full cornucopia,

gamboling gluttonous

through the waft from the grasses

and unseen by their neat

nihilarian captors.

The nilherds sense nail-break

and sharpen their needling,

call out their managers,

rule up their ledgers,

and enter an integer

each purposeful stride.

Nimble Nimrods, the nil

make a dash for the mountain,

turn and bellow their challenge

from the rim of their ridge.

Recasting the balance,

the hill-weary nilherds

return to their high stools

for extended head-scratching.