AT TOOME - Poem by Harry Clifton
There was a pheasant somewhere around,
Croaking; drowned out
By the small birds
Nearer. Would it enter the yard
And dazzle us, or be lost
In the morning, in the wet fields
Levelling out amazement?
A door was opened, a comment made.
Somebody flung a bucket of slops
Across the air. In the silence
New and frightened,
Finches, tits, the little birds,
An army helicopter heard,
Moved in, to their feeding-grounds.
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