Poetry Month 2012. 20: Birds

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.

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