Saturday, November 28, 2015

Woodcock - poem

Walking through my one wood
often at the edges I surprise a snipe or woodcock,
whose jagged path
 defies my ageing eyes.

Every day this happens
but today it's fatal path 
flew towards the house 
where striking the window
instantly it died.

Beautiful plumage,
and most prized game.

Three days it hangs.
I pluck it.
Roast it.
Carve the breast.

And in that flight,
of vulnerability and surrender
we share
the Kingdom of the Air.