The old rooster
pecked among coconut husks
and spires of smoke.
He was a fighting cock
who woke the neighbourhood
for morning prayer,
strutting arrogantly through the yard.
He had evaded death
The parang‘s edge was ready,
and just before I took his head off,
his thoughts became mine.
There was fear,
there were the stilts of a house,
a rusted fence and an eggshell,
there was the old, pointless pride.
I heard the whisk of a broom
and a flame catch on newspaper next door,
then the blade came down.
as I sat down to a thin-boned soup,
I noticed there was blood on my cuffs.
The Old Rooster
28 October 2013