Frost shivers in cold misty air and drips from the trees
The sun peers round heavy grey clouds.
In their homes people lie as if dead; stuffed with turkey and booze.
We walk, my dog and I, through a suspended world.
The bark of distant guns recall memories of the Somme
and Verdun. You could hear the sound in London you know.
But this time it is only Pheasant and Partridge
to the slaughter. And they taste good.
If they’d eaten the dead in war
would the slaughter have been less senseless?
The Owl floats on velvet wings
Drifting over the frosted grass
skirting the naked grey brown spikes
Seeking small furry rustlings in deserted hedgerows
Whilst their comrades die
Two proud cocks are fighting
Hard erect their heads puffed
until one collapses and flies to the next battlefield.
If the Generals had fought like the Pheasants
Would so many men have to die