Two Poems

Call it Spring

Mena's hen goes up and down the mole hills.
Three eggs in the grass - a putty, a white
and a clay-coloured one - we heard them all being laid.

She senses waves. There's salt in the air and that
land's edge brightness beyond the last hill.
She wishes she could fly. She wishes she could swim.
In her eyes there's a party - a concert out at sea.

With the rain on her back she's a shock
to the touch, but Mena would grasp her
like bagpipes to her chest -
'You're going nowhere today little hen' -
And the hen would shake her head and cluck.

Now Mena's gone, we chase her hen around
the mole hills, and coax her back to the dark
of her coop with corn. Then we tuck her head
beneath her wing and watch her go to sleep.
...