The hen picks at meal in the rain-washed
yard.
The mud-japs on her wings are powdered
hard.
The dog in the shed begins to complain.
A fox waits in the sheugh on the green
lane.
The fox sees plump in his pin-pointing
look.
The hen is a fish swimming to his hook.
Sunfall darkens with a black spit of shade.
Dew shines like a snow-flake on a hot blade.
They drink chilled stout after baling the
hay,
And drain the dregs from the dugs of the
day.
As the fox pads past the red metal gate,
They are mindless of a good layer’s fate.
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