Hanging in the shed

Are four dead pheasants and a woodcock

 

On a makeshift table

Some half-eaten sandwiches and a thermos

 

A drab green waterproof

Hangs on a nail above some boots and drips

 

The man sits talking to a friend

And rubbing his damp hair with an old towel

 

Outside dogs are sniffing around the cars

Ignoring the rain one man is hunched over his phone

 

One by one they arrive back in the shed

Prop their guns and settle to their foil-wrapped lunch

 

The men sit on benches, eat and talk of the day

Beside them the bright plumed pheasants are magnificent