The bantams are broody,
not a single egg laid
for at least the last month.
They hide in the hen house,
fretting and moody,
still in their silence
bar an occasional half-hearted,
a softest cluck-cluck.
They long for the crow of a cock,
the warmth of the nest,
the gentle tap of the beak,
the cracking of shell,
the chirp of the chicks
as they welcome this world.
She is broody, her belly ballooning,
but this a mere phantom,
pregnant only with yearning, the want
the need of a tiny babe suckling,
grasping deep comfort in the warmth of her breasts.
Oh how she longs for a life growing inside her,
if only, if only, if only.
This morning she rubs at her tummy,
fondles it strokes at it,
and yet knows it is naught but a dream,
for she has only ever been oh so desperately lonely,
she never having been kissed, never ever been loved
and never ever been laid
(Oh how she dreams of being laid,
safe in the arms of a man, she sure such a good man,
(she imagines the feel and the smell of him).
Oh how she aches to be taken.
Oh how she wants to be wanted.)
She hears the kettle click-off,
makes up a cup of instant black coffee,
sees the bacon near-ready, (mmmm (licks her lips))
cracks an egg on the pan side,
lets it drop in
and watches it solidify in the sizzling hot fat.
Inspired by the bantams – the bantams are broody. They are not my little clucking friends, rather that of my son and daughter-in-law.
Just finished a few days stint of looking after my wonderful grandsons – loved it, but I’m now worn out!
Shared with the good folk at Poets United, hosted by Mary – cheers Mary!
Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Author: Jon Sullivan