GERADE'S CHOOKS
gerade's chooks roost on the back of a quilted lounge, by
the open fire & shelves of herbs, licorice & fragrant
biscuits, mountain black chooks, sooty fat cinderellas,
falling like ash through his calm brown hands, & a chook on
shaky legs, taking her first step from the crate, her head
bob & deep throaty chuckle, as she lands in the rich cold
dirt, one webbed foot, one winter at canyon leigh, turning
the land over, into new leaf litter, showing me the earth
from underneath, as one hug from gerade, edged her into
each day, the eye droppers of liquid, the teaspoons of
mash, a bath in the dust, the excitement of dawn, not
previously seen from the sheds, with a nudge gerade's
chooks fell into morning, clucking & scratching in the sun,
upturned rain water in the clay dishes & roosted in the low
branches, of trees that hung on high white clouds, high as a
chook's neck lifting, on ruffled up feathers & outstretched
wings, until canyon leigh is filled entirely, by chooks
regaining strength, rescued & recovering around the
country, featherless & beakless, these hens that weighed
barely a kilo, have grown to fill the space between trees,
that regenerate with living chook undergrowth, fat as
toadstools, whilst gerade crouches low & private, his gentle
cheek on her shy black feather, & a whisper to a quiet hen
injured from the inside, to the brittle bones & broken
limbs, of chickens gathering strength in a hop hop dash, to
be the first in at the food dish, i looked out from the bush
dunnie between two wooden slats, into the dappled light
down a way from the house, & in it twenty ex-battery
hens, squatting patiently, bright eyed on their twisted
feet, rumbling like thunderclouds, waiting for me to emerge,
so they can rush after me in single file, through the scrub,
along the rocky bush track, crazy, broody, clucking
affectionately, we are forgiven so easily, by chooks |
