Cock of the run or so I thought
in Grandma’s chicken coop
wallowing in her out-sized wellies
with my saucepan full of scraps.
Hens gathered, a knee-deep ocean
as in I waded, cock a hoop
scattering bread on turbulent waters
until the real cock surfaced.
Moses-like, he parted those feathery waves,
pecked at the soft hollows of my knees
until my cries and the hens’ clamour
interrupted Grandma’s Sunday bake.
Hands white with flour, a powder-keg
in a pinafore, she took the saucepan,
gave that cock a scrap he couldn’t stomach.
Flattened him with a shocking oath.
Bandaged in bacon strips, spread-eagled
across a plate the size of a dustbin lid,
his Second Coming was enough
to strike terror in the chicken hearted.