In flight from the guns on the hill
the smart pheasants have come down to flock
about the gardens. I count fifteen before
they scuttle away from the spectral face
at the window, my careless sudden shift.
Tortoishell-backed, wet- sand breasted, the hens
pick among the gravel where there seems
not a grain of sustenance, while the cocks
gaudy as cousinly peafowl strut their stuff
with avian shrieks and football rattle
gobble. Jockeying for place or sex
they face each other down, ducking, bobbing
their jewelled heads, ruby, ivory, jet
and sapphire till one backs off.
On the hill, dogs and beaters scythe on
Methodically, putting up those who
didn’t dare the descent. They stagger
into the air, stout, not fashioned for flight
but for potshots. At early twilight
two trucks head down the track cargoed
with dun corpses, anonymous butcher’s meat.
Nov 21 2006
