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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.
Copyright ©
C.W. Bryan
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