Poem in hendecasyllabics

Danse Macabre

The hens were quickstepping this way and that

behind the steel mesh, today like every day,

crying, ‘Let us out, for God’s sake let us out!’

I sighed. ‘But I saw, yesterday
down the drive where you love to roam and forage
Brother Fox pass, grinning in his russet coat.’

‘We long to be free pour faire nos jeux,’ they raged,
‘and should the ball of existence bounce to the red
and should the one round in the chamber engage

and should our danse macabre prove a foxtrot
so be it.’ But I left them caged.

There are too many of us among the dead.

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