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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

Style / type: 
Structured: Western
Editing stage: 
Content level: 
Not Explicit Content


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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Hi Ray
Its about grief and memory and came from soldiers killed and buried with no grave buried where they fell.

author comment

Thansk for telling me.

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