They crane, rotate, jerk
goof their necks around
taking a series of snapshots
looking for the main chance
make significant snap judgments about the speed and distance of a target
insect, mouse, frog, slug
or the neighbours cat
Do not question their motives
lest they destroy you.
Copyright © 2021 Kim Whysall-Hammond
In the pen
They stroll and gossip
Argue and hustle
Murmur and call
Huddle together for companionship
In the pen
They bathe in the dust
Stretch their wings
Stand longingly by the door
Waiting to leave
In the pen
Copyright © 2016 Kim Whysall-Hammond
She’s a rescue chicken
no rest for her
half her feathers missing
she’s one tough bird
Small, brown, determined
she plans to sneak back in
wirecutters in beak
to cut free the other chickens
Who says a rescue chicken
needs tender care?
This one’s for the liberation
of battery hens everywhere
Copyright © 2021 Kim Whysall-Hammond
This poem sprung into my head upon reading Jim Feeneys wonderful poem Oprah Among the Chickens, where he asks:
Is a rescue chicken
a chicken that has been rescued by people
or is it a chicken that rescues people?
Well, I had a different idea………
The photo comes from the excellent British Hens Welfare Trust.
They comment as they watch me weed
and as I go, they start to plead
for freedom from their boring pen
restrictive to a busy hen.
Now free, they root, scratch and dig
As efficient as any pig
Rustling through every flower
I watch to while away the hours
Later, the washing that I carry
Commands attention, so they tarry
Weaving about by my feet
Hoping it’s something they can eat
Finally it is time to end their roam
I need to get these chickens home
A line of treats upon the grass
Leads them back to the pen at last.
Copyright © 2018 Kim Whysall-Hammond
A painting of our oldest hen, called Dave. I’ve tried to indicate movement:
Dave belongs to my youngest son, who is 17 today.
Ghosts of little lives follow me
Today I held my hand out to a hen
She didn’t peck at my sparkly ring
As her predecessor always did
Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond
I am scrabbling for a word
To describe the noise of chickens
Scrabbling in the garden
It isn’t rustling
The leaves above are doing that
Rustle is a high pitched word
I need a lower pitich
Mustle, grustle
Tustle is what one hen is doing with a worm
Now there’s a sudden outbreak of snail football
The snail always loses
It’s life
On this sunny late October afternoon
Maybe its scrabbling after all
Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond
Robin in the fig tree
What are the words?
Bright, cheery red, bob-bob-bobbing?
My Robin has read Ted Hughes
He pulls worms fighting from the stiff soil
Terrorises chickens, birds a hundred times his size
Fights to the death for territory
He is now lurking in our small unproductive Fig tree
That leans awkwardly out of a fake ceramic tub
The pigeons by the pond look uneasy
Copyright © 2016 Kim Whysall-Hammond
In the pen
In the pen
They stroll and gossip
Argue and hustle
Murmur and call
Huddle together for companionship
In the pen
They bathe in the dust
Stretch their wings
Stand longingly by the door
Waiting to leave
In the pen
Copyright © 2016 Kim Whysall-Hammond
Yes, there are so many different fora and blogs about back garden chickens. But I need to tell you about mine.
They jump.
Sophie, at the grand old age of tree (she’s a hybrid, and so old before her time, she likes early nights now and is no longer a party chicken), can jump almost 2 feet without using her wings. She does this at the gate of their pen, showing her excitement at seeing me come out of the back door. Maybe I will let her out to play in the flower beds! Or even better, the Lettuce patch!
Dave, the other oldster, has taken the two new girls in hand and taught them to jump too. All four girls jump to reach the miniature red gooseberries at the top of the (supposedly inaccessible to hens) standard bush. And all the raspberries which are on 3 foot canes at least, are now gone. Try to visualise oversize dumpy hummingbirds and you are almost seeing what I am currently smiling at.
Yup, these girls could jump for TeamGB . If they accepted chickens, which they don’t and that’s terrible discrimination, shouldn’t be allowed these days…
And yes, Dave is a girl. She lays. Never get a 12 year old boy to name a chicken is my advice.
Oh and the new ones are Zena and Hera. They are party chickens, not wanting to go into the coop until very late, often popping out from it if they hear you creeping across the garden lawn, thus wrecking what is very probably your fourth attempt to close the coop door. Sigh.
