On the ground he could see tracks of chook feet
near invisible in the dust: elegant and ghostly
He took photographs and wondered to himself what
did they mean, if anything? It was noon
the time magpies, dragonflies take siestas

The hairs on the back of his hands stand up
He’s remembering an old dog detecting a beetle
in the undergrowth, and putting its forepaw in
a bear trap and losing it. That was
in a movie. Cinema’s so didactic

Glamorous and persuasive, sunsets fade slow
this pitch of summer, motes in the air
A retiree sits dreaming of martinis and rap
music, or whatever is the new entertaining thing
A man runs round her yard: he’s lost his head

Lunatics are usual suggests the screen
There’s one on Channel 9 now with the
news. Someone in Brisbane has discovered a chook
spirit, or genius, which can scratch revelations in
the dirt, and they all – he claims – will come true

Luminous and genial, parsley fed, deep
in, or brooding on, Nabokov as if eggs
a brindle and rose-combed hen convinces her fool
Counting and arrangement are all that’s necessary to
find the truth: a peck on the head like school

Michael Farrell

Michael Farrell won the 2012 Peter Porter Poetry Prize. His latest collection is I Love Poetry (2017).