My grandmother kept hens.
And her hens loved her.
They followed
wherever she went
even into her kitchen.

Then, hands on hips
and quite half hearted
she would shoo them
towards the door.

And clear and still
in my mind's eye
I see those hens
as they flutter and fly
to the playful tilt
of her apron.

Part 2 of 3:

Geraniums +
My Grandmother +
Small Summer Days

Sean Joyce

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-grandmother-4/