Broody Garden Pheasant Poem by C Richard Miles

I saw a silent statue shake and scratch;
A tawny shadow stirred its stock-still head,
All mottled fawn, behind the cabbage patch.

Deep in the middle of the flowerbed,
Half hidden in her hole, beneath a bush,
The pheasant scraped her nest next to the shed.

All pillow-plump, with feathers fine and plush,
She nestled down to match the bare, brown ground
In camouflage, flecked as a missel thrush.

The broody hen has hunted round and found
Her refuge where, cocooned, her brood will hatch
In this soft earthen covert, safe and sound.