Monday, October 18, 2010

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

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