I sit quite still
on the weathered wooden bench
as the caramel coloured chicks
stalk closer.
The sharp tugging of beaks
at tender shoots of grass,
the homely hencoop smell –
and I’m five years old and adrift
in summer, giddy, cut loose
from my moorings,
lost but wrapped safe
in solicitous clucking –
The chicks nestle near
in the last rays of the low sun;
the hen, wary, patrols –
and I hold Grandpa’s hand
as we go and lift warm eggs
from their beds of straw.
whypoetry 
November 5th, 2017 at 12:44 pm
“sharp tugging” and “caramel coloured” alliteration work wonders now – great job!
February 23rd, 2018 at 11:51 am
Reblogged this on Nina.