Mea Culpa

By | 1 April 2011

In the morning all that’s left
is a clutch of feathers
by the watertank,
another by the front gate
and one more on the verge.
The door of the chookshed
stands open, the lock unfixed
for more than six months, the
makeshift prop of a railway
sleeper lying where I left it,
an unspoken accusation.
I quietly collect yesterday’s
eggs from the laying box,
apologise to the empty yard
and head back inside.

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