Snapped shut on the poacher's leg

the iron cage in its hide of bracken bites

with a dark declaration of blood

through a tangle of fustian,

matted hair jerked back with a brief cry,

a dead rabbit thrown clear by the shock.

 

He was spotted under an early sky

first by the beagle then the farmer.

Taken all but dead

back to the tack room on the estate

to survive with a limp.

         

In the pub a fire roars,

pints are pulled

and in the inglenook

there is the man trap in a coat of black

grinning with its shark jaw

forced into open retirement.

 

"It's part of the furniture now"

says the licensee to second homers,

embellishing its bloody history.