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i.m of Jo Cox  

Three chickens died this week.  

They sat in the unexpected heat panting  

and in the morning there was just one 

white bird, bewildered, stepping over 

their bodies, following the dog. 

In the news, a woman died 

and for days the rain, 

so that the roses rotted in the bud 

and there seemed, in all this time  

of high summer and scent, 

of hollyhocks and hedge-clippings, 

that I had had enough 

and finding black feathers 

floating on the pond 

was too much.