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Upon being handed

the gun I

choose to recline on wet, springy turf

and then lay down on the

wrinkled blue tarpaulin,

to pepper the air,

Phasianus Colchicus

blurting out the why and the where

and clasping my sweat

at 26 metres.


The older corners are the best

the low-hanging branches,

the leafy hollows, amalgamated bark, bush

and clumps of stone,

discarded cartridges,

catching the straying boot,

on private land.

The nests arrayed in diamond formation,

enclaves wrought for brigands,

bandits, poachers,

and accidents...

the winter solstice

and my friend

in severe pain,

in the back of a bumping four-by-four,

crying out among the heaps of ring-necked game,

tetanus-shot and coffee-headed;

the snow red through a creeping dusk,

and crazes in the asphalt

which still saw them home,

plucked, dried, stored for deep freeze;

and piercing eyes, the colour that

could still re-call above the trees

the freedom of a pastel sky.


◄ The Roast

Grow, Green Garden ►


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David Blake

Tue 27th Jun 2017 22:22

Thanks for pointing out the errors out Ray. I typed this up pretty fast. And cheers for taking a look. Think that's the second time I've reminded you of Ted Hughes in my stuff now!

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Tue 27th Jun 2017 17:14

Can't say highly enough of this David. I found an irony in the friend with pain and the death dealing of the shots. The snap crackle and pop of the imagery and crafting of the lines. The piercing eyes of dead birds reminding me of Ted Hughes detail. I think there was an error of spelling on wrought? . ( A great word by the way ) and also cartridges.
Sorry to be picky but slips happen. Please keep these delights coming.


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