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.