34-37 Degrees South - 2023

Life by the lake
Kai Jensen
1.
Yesterday we buried Viola, one
of our two old hens, tucking her
orange-feathered body gently
down into the square hole,
nestled on the damp clay layer
that underlies our garden, then
heaped on the topsoil to make a mound.
Today, from my desk, I see that
the joey, freshly out of the pouch, exulting
in its new-found self-locomotion
has made a playground of the grave,
hopping up on to the pile of earth
then down again, over and over
beside its mother snoozing in the sun.
2.
Next day Miranda’s gone too – I find her
keeled over in the straw of the roost box
as though a pecking order and lifelong
married love aren’t so different–
an idea that makes me pause
and think of couples I know.
I fetch the spade, dig Miranda a hole
close to her mate’s, remembering
how they loved to get involved
in garden excavations, so, Hamlet-like,
among other closing remarks, I say:
Okay, now here’s your grave.
The good news is, it has lots of worms;
the bad news, you don’t eat them.
43