Their guts are exposed all over the road,

terracotta tufts pulped on the tarmac.

Tiny white tips of tails lie unsanitised,

entrails turning from scarlet to black.

The purveyors of death have driven away,

not pausing to peer in their rear view mirrors.

Fur is soon seeping, fallen feathers go grey,

only the grease stains of memory remain;

a feline sized pheasant shaped foxy memorial

without faded flowers to record where they fell.

My path meandered there by fool's empty chance,

to be flattened with an inconsequential glance.