At the end of the day a good bag by all,
gundogs at heel, obeying the call.
Back to the farm we slowly make our way,
choosing our brace from the impressive array.
Buying their Pheasant and Venison, from Waitrose or another shop,
they think it’s killed humanely, without the firing of a single shot.
Shotgun cocked and ready to scare,
our gamekeepers foot gets caught in a snare.
He trips and falls, while both barrels let go,
Out of town, the skylark soars.
Out of town, no rush hour roars.
The hunter he stares, as the fly floats along,
as a Blackbird nearby, sings its cheerful song.
Closer and closer to the trout, gets the fly,
The hedgerows and copses are no place to hide,
Reynard can smell you and time is on his side.
The grass it crunches, when flattened by boots,
fingers feeling numb, with toes following suit.
Diesel fumes drift, polluting the winter air,