Dear Kate used to live in our granny flat, and she had this great idea of keeping chickens in her backyard. It was a repeated disaster, resulting in way too many dead chickens. The experience, however unpleasant, was fodder for the poetic muse of an eight-year-old who was watching and weeping. I know Kate will appreciate that I am finally posting Our Chicken is Slain; we've giggled about this poem for years.
Our Chicken is Slain
(by an eight-year-old I used to know)How can the sun shine?
It ought to rain
We weep in our beds
For our chicken is slain.
Chased by a dog
Who ought to be ashamed
But instead is happy
That our chicken is slain.
How can we wipe away
The horrible, aching, throbbing pain
That comes from the realization
That our chicken is slain.
5 comments:
Whee! Love it! When I was about ten I wrote a poem with these two lines:
O, Giraffe,
You are the king of Af-
rica
Oh Dear Di!
Where to begin? It is SO terribly funny to read this again. What a great memory (well, not the dead chickens, but...)
Tell the mysterious 8yo that I still, to this day, appreciate her empathy. It was a repeated expensive tragedy that our chickens were slain.
:D Love you!
Kate
My daughter linked me to this post, which is very touching -- really! We had chickens for many years and I can feel the old feelings that the children and I had, welling up.
Now that I am here, I've been browsing around, and have to say that you have the BEST quotes. And thoughts. And thank you for linking to N.D. Wilson, whom it seems I was just reading about not too long ago... I will enjoy those writing pages.
Cindy, that giraffe poem kills me. Your writing genius revealed itself at a young age. I will have a lot to explain next time someone says Africa and I start laughing (-:
Kate, those were great days, even if there were chicken disappointments (-:
GretchenJoanna, I am so happy you stopped by. Come visit again, and thank you for commenting.
~Di
*cough* I am sure that that anonymous 8 year old is more than happy to have been able to afford amusement. :)
I didn't remember that the subject was the Kesslers' chickens ... I thought they had been our big white ones. Too much tragedy!
love you, Mama,
Madelaine
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