Out fly the fowl
Like feathers from a bolster
And who comes last but the rooster.
Pausing to raise a leg,
Stretch a claw,
As though easing on a glove
Before his morning stroll.
Attached to my hands
By strings of grain
I move the flock across the yard
And back again.
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Comments about this poem (Feeding Time by Seamus Hogan )
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