Writing me Down

Friday, May 19, 2006

Don't count your chickens before they're thatched

It was perched on the edge of a cliff
when I saw it. Clucking, looking fat.
Nearby a haystack stood, listing sideways
as if sliding off its needle.
From a blackberry bush
dozens more chickens rushed
out like a cloud, and
stood around their stray mother.
Then with a whir the breeze blew down
the hay onto the clucking crowd.

Glimpsed on a bike ride

ponies like bookends
two foals asleep at their feet
among buttercups