Poem for Today

Twelve White Hens

.

Looking down from my window

I saw twelve white hens

in a small cage,

made from wire and wood.

The redness of the combs

was stark and sharp

against the snow feathers,

crying out their presence.

They all sat or stood,

hopped or danced,

awaiting transfer, onward

to anew place to forage.

On the back of the lorry

patiently waiting to move;

occasionally the red combs

pierced and cut by the wire.

Where will they all be

tomorrow and afterwards?

Perhaps laying a barrage

of smooth, brown eggs.

Perhaps they will grow

fatter and fatter,

feeding constantly

on handfuls of broiler mash.

Now they move off,

leaving me to ponder

on the imponderable point

of twelve white hens.

© 1978 : Colin Gordon-Farleigh