Poem 346

… I never have been fond of yoghurt (luckily) …

The Simple Life

The black chook that would eat anything
that ran into the kitchen to peck
at the cat's food
lived on top of a hill in the far North
where my brother and his girlfriend
rented a house
with all summer spread out jobless and golden
          around them

they rode bicycles the five miles to the General Store
once a week
                          Christine baked bread
made her own yoghurt
                                               and threw it out again
my brother walked down to the end of the drive
with an empty bottle when he saw the farmer coming
for the evening milking

the accent was on down home and natural
with the exception of the minor technological marvel
of a wardrobe lined with silver paper
and an ultra violet tube that spangled down
round the clock on the little dazzled seedlings
that eventually were going to pay the rent
and more
                   until the local cops stopped
and searched them one afternoon
as they walked their bikes
home from the store

I visited just after Christmas
New Year's Eve we spent in the Hukerenui pub
and at Jack and Jill's who lived
on the next hill

                             in the morning 
      when I opened the door
      into violent sunlight
      I found the new year already dead 
      on the doorstep
      in the shape of the black chook
      splattered with yoghurt