forgotten aristocrats trudge through long grass, reedbeds

in tweeds and barbours

chins set firm, eyes peeled

cradling the sporting guns

poker straight from the arm.

 

Ordure and sweat press close, a scent

of death doggedly pursues them

lingering in crevices, buckling down

into the wet scape of an undeniable timeshift.

 

The Jacobean house, implacable, backs them up

demands its right of continuance

but for now the light relief of the shoot

old chums at the ready

and the beaters are about.

 

Soon there will be partridge pheasant woodcock

ripped down, the dogs sense it,

everything must make sense to a countryman,

the house stiffens in respect.

Then vintage wines will be uncorked

to flush the new flesh down

after the smudge of sun on distant fields.