Three geese
Three grey geese flew overhead so low
You could feel the breath of thrumming primaries
As silky taut muscles moved in
Equilibriums of lift and gravity.
Were they not afraid? Did they not fear
That lethal gunshot? Isn’t that what they’re for?
‘Sport’ for the leisured classes -
The men, is it not always the men, and not the poor?
Like the pheasant in the wood, the grouse about the moor,
A few destined for the pot.
Even that: should they be here, aliens
From Asia? But here they are and left to rot.
In stink pits dug secretly but not secret
From hungry, desperate scavengers
Lured from natural food by a free meal,
The low vermin, raptors, thieves, foul beasts and curs.
Fly on then great geese; still you would be shot
And flung to the stinking pit though no threat
To join your brethren, fair fowl, languid fox,
And hear all the cruel dangers they have met.
Three geese flew overhead,
With their dirty Sid James chuckles and paying me no heed.
Coming up low, veering nor faltering
A single beat. Oh, I know they saw me.
© RM Meyer
The Highlands, March 2022
Cornwall August 2022
