Carrying on the theme of Hughes from yesterday, here’s a poem by Frieda Hughes.
The poet as a penguin
Sat in his snow-cold, nursing
The egg his wife had left him.
There it was, born of them both,
Like it or not. Rounded in words,
And cracking open its shell for a voice.
In the blizzard,
Beaten up from the arctic flats
Were the audience.
From the glass extensions
Of their eyes, they watched
The skuas rise on the updraft,
Every snap of their beaks
Like the tick of a knitting needle,
Hitching a stitch in the wait
For a rolling head.