poetry from the chicken coop

forgive the following – I couldn’t help myself.

An Unlikely Poet

The hen
hovers in her pen
above this and that
pecking at will
puttering, scraping
grasping at straws
with her scaly claws
clucking now and again.
Perhaps she is praying?

Or just clucking.
Best not to ask just now –
she seems to be brooding.
Any disturbance
would warrant a peck.
So take care
not to speak
or poke
or get too close
but do watch
and see!

She is huddled
in her dark corner
tense, perfectly still
without moving and yet
and crouching and
waiting and
until –


the egg


wet and warm and blood-stained
onto the soft chaff beneath.

It is not perfect.
It is good.

And that, my friends, is my lay
on the Art of Laying.

By R.K. Puddington…as if anyone else would want to claim rights to this one.



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