Meg

Something is bothering

this silkie





She wanders

round and round

the yard

in

a solipsistic fluff

driving us round the bend.

She worries the others.





A few days later

when we let her out she resumes

her circling

then huddles beneath

the bird bath

and will not move.

We shift her.

She crawls under a bush

hard to reach.

The cat who often bothers the chooks

leaves her alone.





That night it rains and rains.

In the morning

she is bedraggled

and dead.

I lift her into the earth.

There isn’t much of her.

The chooks settle after that.

So do we.

24 thoughts on “Meg

    • thanks Hobbo: I don’t want to get into an argument but you need to look up the definition of ‘solipsism’: the whole poem hinges on that word: that is the true sadness of the poem, the condition, the terrible isolation, that birthed it —

      Liked by 1 person

  1. This is sad. 😒😒. Maybe you’re right and she had dementia. Or maybe she had had a stroke or something. Nobody will ever know. It’s so sad. I knew a horse who one day seemed fine and then overnight seemed to have gone crazy and ran itself into a tree and died. It’s traumatic to find such a thing.

    Liked by 1 person

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