Cockerel. A poem by Lynda Turbet

Weathercock
cock of the midden
cock of the walk
cocksure rooster
this farmyard Jagger
neck stretched
struts and thrusts
shakes comb and wattle
crows conquests by the hour;
wives jostle for his eye
preen, croon seduction
choose me, choose me.

The wind blows:
Chaucer’s Chanticleer
sleek-feathered herald
(gules / sable / vert)
sun-burnished braggart
undone by vanity; or
spins to darkest pagan gods
hot blood sacrificed
black in secret signs.

Your voice is lovers parting,
homing spirits, broken spells;
today, your bugle sounds betrayal
over quiet fields; silent bells
wait for release, their salleys looped
in dusty towers. Starved souls
denied their celebration,
must be content with you,
joyful, ringing in the morning.