Clad in a nighty, with bed hair and pillow-creased cheeks,
I run, carrying a rake,
chasing two big dogs
up the street.
up the street.
One looks like a wolf,
the other a Struggletown mutt.
Two of my best hens flap in their jaws.
The grassy verge
is snowy with feathers.
Oh dear - chickens seem to attract all the wrong attention...
ReplyDeleteThe mental image of you brings big smiles :) however I commiserate on your loss.
ReplyDeleteIsn't it great that poetry can be found in such things..
ReplyDeleteThat's a great short, Sarah. A genuine first class piece.
One for the family archives too!
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ReplyDeleteHow tragic, Sarah! Bloody dogs ... but I do love the phrase "Struggletown mutt."
ReplyDeleteBack in the days when I had chooks in my back yard they provided constant inspiration for poems, and hard lessons about responsibility, life and death for me and my children.
Several were published in my first book "Shorelines", which has been out of print for years. You've inspired me to put some of them up on my blog.
Yes, do it BT. I'd love to read them. The mutts are in the pound now, poor things but I guess they'd be back otherwise, to finish off the rest. Thanks for your comments.
ReplyDeleteBloody dog-owners really. I reckon even my toy poodles would have a go at a chook, it's just their fave dinner.
ReplyDeleteDogs and horses pay a high price for being so close to us.
ReplyDeleteSo do chickens!
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