Shooting

The bright wide flush of Summer
Rain all on its way
Half ruined Wimbledon and the Ashes
Every sodden day
Sky grey as the meanest slate
Wind was blowing hard
Jasmine and pink Peonies
Rapidly changing were scarred

Wild dancing boughs
Of copper
The beech tall in the sky
Thirty or forty foot tresses
The Cherry how it’s boughs now fly
A cage is set three magpies
To tempt the Goshawk who
A covert camera watches on
Some gamekeeper it’s true

Masked up in covered blackness
The red grouse at his back
DEFRA a new women
Represents the trade, more flack
We hear she Owns her own green moor
Oh god it seems we are played.
The shooters richly decked in feathers
Hiding in the shade.