The Little Brown Hen

A little poem about watching the wrens in spring.

Lost in a passing fancy,
A dalliance with a wren,
No currency nor possession
Could trump this little hen.

Her colours are bland,
Her task straightforward,
No springtime blue,
No dance cavorted.

If ever should she stray however
There would be no cock to woo her,
For all the cock's calls and flurries
Are but an alms to the task before her.

If all goes well on this spring lea
Then follow does the promise,
A gleeful spring for this year's morrow,
Another hen, another cock, another office.