Saturday, 12 August 2017

Pity the Birds - my poem for the Inglorious Twelfth


PITY THE BIRDS

Pity the birds, when the guns begin
and peace is punctured by a ricochet
of cracks.  Bellies bullet-pumped,
they’ll fall like bricks in bags
from August skies to freshly-bloodied grass.

Pity the grouse, blackish, russet-smudged 
and rustling through rushes, like hook-
beaked hens eye-deep in heather,
bodies almost globular, heads crowned
with scarlet tufts.

Unsuspectingly, they will root through shoots, ingest
the juice of moorland berries, dot rural skies
like black stars bobbling over tree-tops
until the skeleton-shredding lead bursts them open
and they drop, gut-strewn, to a chorus of dull “thucks.”

Pity these innocents, naively nibbling grass and gorse,
lapping up a landscape 
slyly set against them, so big gangs of grown men 
might laughingly maraud, 
pissed on whisky by mid-afternoon 
and smashing birds to bits, 
like tantrumming schoolboys they cock their guns,
esteemed QC’s, and crooked judges, and those who own 

whole postcodes, whose grand estates are leased
for slaughter, so that birds may bear the brunt
of their shrivelled egos - blue-blooded thugs,
men so insecure they need to kill - and kill they will, 
their violent games protected by bent laws, 
ensuring harmless and defenceless birds
are shot down by the scum of England’s countryside
on the bloody afternoon of the Inglorious Twelfth.

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