Wednesday 15 February 2012

A cold morning


Chickens fluffed up and reluctant to venture
fourth degree below zero as my boot fractured green blades.
Yesterday footprints are frozen templates in the mud.
Chooks pecked at ice in drinker,
 retreated baffled to a tray of recent tapped water.
Perhaps a frozen old specked hen instead
Dave is a better fox’s name than Reynard but,
Hen and Chicken is a good pub named
after the coal seams below Lower Clifton.
Bedminister -  Secretary of State for sleep.

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