chicken
shit shovelling
is the ultimate
sanguinity – nothing
comes raw to nostrils
pinched against
adversity as acrid
dust drifting
on straw winds
a year wiles away
before sub judice denial
recompenses;
a year weighs
ardent pungency
of reticence – yet
caustic dust stays
today’s memory
expressed
© 3 April 2009, I. D. Carswell
for the uninitiated - this poem came after the last
chicken met its demise at supposedly restrained
neighbour's dog activity. Sure, we live in the out-
back if you want to term it that way - but we're a
cosmopolitan urbanity in every other sense ...
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