I wrote this poem a few years ago in response to the commencement of another grouse shooting season. There is so much more I could say.
The Twelfth? Never!
rapid upward flight
crack crash-crack
suddenly changes into
a fast whirling out-of-control
plunge
crack crash-crack
dead or worse still
only dying bombs into
the eco-system that
nurtured it to allow
a feather to break free
from the body that
was its life
crack crash-crack
they hear the call
of death once more
filling the skies
with harmed and harmless birds
with toxic lead shot
with death
echo after echo
reverberates
the vision stays
the guns go silent
the dogs begin their work
Both unsuccessful.
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