Wednesday, 16 July 2025

Easter Egg Hunt / The Forgetting

I was pleased to have this poem published in the Spring ‘25 edition of online journal The High Window.

Although it’s true title should be Easter Egg Hunt I submitted it under the title of The Forgetting as I wanted to make sure readers unfamiliar with my work received a big enough clue as to what it’s about - specifically early onset dementia in Parkinson’s. A serious and sad matter which I’ve deliberately countered with a cheery and light tone. 

A reader asked me ‘why Moses?’. In truth it’s a name I’ve come across several times in our West Country farming community and it just felt suitable - but it probably implies a religious meaning which is unintended. 

And yes, I have a fluffy Buff Orpington - just one now since Mr Fox’s last visit…

THE FORGETTING

Moses lifted the hatch, let out the hens.
The fluffy Buff Orpingtons bustled down
after him, haphazardly scampering.
Moses sang softly, some old soul ballad
unknown to poultry or those under fifty.
Later he’d muck out the chicken house,
scoop up and barrow their shitty hay
before shaking out fresh, making the nests
a warm and cosseting place to lay.
Accountancy eluded him, his old trade,
rules and rates playing hide and seek.
Sometimes mid-sentence he’d number away,
free range. Mostly he chose not to speak,
as if he’d been born with an allowance,
whittled back now to a settled account.
No longer bound by paper clip chains
to software updates and late returns,
he wandered the garden’s perimeters
checking for weak spots, faults in the fence.
He wore jeans, t-shirts, slip on shoes,
nothing with buttons, all of it blue.
On sunny days he might lie on the ground,
lost to the sky’s hovering vacancy
while the two big hens clucked around.
It wasn’t so bad. Neighbours believed
the fowl seemed fond of him, genuinely.
Could it have been the birds’ morning feed
occurring more often than scheduled?
This Easter weekend Moses spent gently
trembling about in the wildflower margins,
worrying the hens had started to lay
somewhere away from their nesting boxes.
While he leaned, head bowed in dandelions,
prodding a cane at the end of the plot,
His poor wife went quietly up to the run
to come back with three days’ cold eggs
cradled inside the crook of her arm.



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