For an old girl

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Age has caught her

with its grasp.

Long reaching fingers

of time

poke her joints.

They ache

though spring has
come

and gone

and summer sun

drips from the leaves

to her crowning glory

no longer what it
was;

the gloss worn away

by time’s

wind and rain and
dust.

Some days she barely
moves

– too much effort

to go beyond the
doors

they open every morn’

freeing her from
night’s safe prison.

Once she ran like the
young ones,

revelled in sunshine,

laid every day.

Now, her perch is too
high,

her nest a barren bed

she needs help to
rise from.

She’s an old girl in
the brood,

watching the sun set

over a full hen’s
life,

gold to pink,

to amber,

to black star-studded
night.

© Palitja Moore, text and image, updated 2019.

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