Pheasant Hunting

The sun has brung out a low spinescene against the brush housing thrush and pheasants My father moves as death, silhouetted A proper Shropshire lad I hang my neck In shame and solidarity. The brittleboned, the sky-minded, evicted from their homes by the bullet, blinded with momentum, shrieking with hunger, begging for a crumb of flesh or feather, asleep or awake. No bullet I’ve known will discriminate. There is love in the hunt, in trigger wrought Death. It comes! Comes softly as my father’s breath. Perfumed with gunpowder, the bullet’s kiss The pheasant’s hollow spine parted like lips.