Brood

In quiet fields where morning light does creep,
A speckled hen does guard her feathered brood,
Each chick a pulse of life, a promise deep,
Beneath the sky's soft, ever‑changing mood.

They peck at earth, their tiny claws impart
A rhythm to the soil, a gentle drum,
While mother’s warm plume shields each beating heart
From breezes cold and shadows that may come.

When dusk descends and amber fades to grey,
The brood gathers close beneath her wing,
Their chirps a lullaby that fades away
Into the night where dreaming sparrows sing.

Thus life renews in humble, feathered guise,
A brood of hope beneath the English skies.