Cluck

In the quiet hush of a morning yard,
A speckled hen lifts her feathered head,
Her soft cluck rolls over dew‑kissed grass,
A humble hymn the waking world has fed.

She struts the patchwork of cabbage rows,
Tail cocked like a tiny banner’s flare,
Each cluck a punctuation, bright and low,
Calling chicks to scratch the cool, damp air.

The old cock watches from the stile,
His comb a flame against the pale sky,
He answers with a crow, a jovial mile,
While she replies with a gentle, steady sigh.

Cluck, cluck, the rhythm of the farm,
A simple sound that stitches day to night—
In British fields, where calm and charm
Reside in every feathered, friendly light.