Citizens of Maes Mawr
Secure in his voice, fine feathers and spurs,
proud cock ruled ten females, five capons,
in the Republic that was Maes Mawr.
They clucked and preened
ran up the pile of weeping dung
in the shade the crab apple tree,
fluttered to the sturdy kitchen table
strewn with last week’s crumbs,
pecked at empty tins of marrow fat peas,
dropped eggs in hay of the old Dutch barn.
The capons grew plump on scraps,
their peckings in yard and field,
were then killed, plucked and stuffed,
their viscera cast to the marauding cats
whilst cock strutted and crowed,
his progeny harvested, eunuchs devoured.
© Anthony Fisher February 2008