Sheila Hamilton
The cockerel greets the morning
Prize specimen. My haircomb scarlet,
my feathers thick and pristine
as a recently-laundered eiderdown.
I peek at scattered corn.
Sun-glints gild my yellows.
Borne out of the house
on a cushion, I'm an Indian rajah,
a delicate baby.
The crowds point, gesticulate.
I puff up, proud as the proverb.
In the pit they lift me,
their precious jewel, their protege.
Somebody holds my claws down.
A deft expert arranges my neck
with spurs. They wince.
And now I see the opposition,
equally armoured, strutting the cobbles.
He catches my amber eye
at the same moment I catch his.
The crowd is silent.
Tomorrow, their dawn will be paler.
Page(s) 3
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