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Days of Spring
Days of Spring
This pheasant
lives in a cage of words,
black sticks bent just so, floating
in imagination’s thicket.
When he calls - chack chack,
a woodland copse, tree trunks
packed close, appear in my room,
the darkly silvered stems like shadows.
As I watch new buds and blossom
unfurl, on boughs reaching to the sun,
above the dark chaos beneath,
I smell petrichor, I smell musk.
I know that the night will be cold,
that frost will grab the delicate buds
and wither shoots and petals,
I feel the cold blanket of the earth.
Chack, Chack, Chaccck, he screams
as the gun rebounds and the bullet
hits his chest, bright plumage broken,
male pride exploded into dust.
I shiver as I pour my feelings
onto the silence of white space
I write to preserve his bright plumage,
immortalise him in my memory.
His resting place a copse in spring
in a land where pheasants strut
Comments
Ray Whitaker
Wed, 2021-05-05 20:03
Owww...
A poem that describes a hunted animal... I found this very imteresting.
Who is the pheasant in your life? The death so described...
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Raywhitakerblog.wordpress.com
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samary
Mon, 2021-05-10 06:34
Hi Ray
Hi Ray
Its about grief and memory and came from soldiers killed and buried with no grave buried where they fell.
Ray Whitaker
Mon, 2021-05-10 12:32
Oh. Missed that entirely
Thansk for telling me.
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Raywhitakerblog.wordpress.com
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