Rees Arnott-Davies

Pimlico School, London

Gallus Domesticus

I remember the cockerel feather –
The burnt colour of crude oil and coal powder –
You found it in the hillside for me, at least
Seven years ago, now. Maybe we’d gone up as a dare –
Or perhaps to pass the time. Most
Probably to see the rain-struck estuary,
Less fierce than under the holiday
Sun, naked without the usual boats, untouched almost

By that violence the sea seems to possess. And in the sedge
Sat this wingless feather, fixing it to my head
You called it my crest, called me a little chieftain.
At the hilltop you put me on your back, let
My fingers clutch your neck and grope the rain,
Trying for what lay beyond the clouds.
Even then I heard the notes of death crowd out
Your throat. Before going back you pointed out the heron