The Pheasant Shoot
Grey clouds gather over the lonesome glen,
Like ghosts, shadow the unmarked graves below,
Where Caledonian forests, bears, wolves and men
Rot beneath the burn-scars that the hillsides’ show.
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In the middle, in the valley, Yay! Kensington club meets-
In their welly boots and tartans, bonnet hats and Tweeds.
Turnberry golfers, complete with their sex toy sticks,
Look like nothing compared to this collection of pri-*
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Rupert, Philip, Winston, George and the gang
Plough the grass in boredom or wave the guns in the air.
Rupert takes aim, mouths- “Bang. Bang. Bang.”
The slope above, beheld by his lizard-eyed stare.
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And on that slope, crawling through the thorn and bush-
Poor peasants churn the faint snow into slush.
Then stand up, shivering, in wet overalls,
Waiting for their capped commander’s call.
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“Forward!” They spread out down the hill,
Banging yellow sticks together for their minimum wages.
Fleeing through the trees, the grouse wings flap
The last living flutters of their pages.
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The stick-beats echo dully round the desolate hills,
The big birds croak loudly, like so many frogs.
The dead, spruce aisles are finally brought to life
By the pheasants and the peasants, and the dogs.
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Beyond the supermarket forest, with nowhere left to go,
Into the slate-grey sky the panicked birds sail.
One- left behind- stretches wings, straightens tail,
Then drops to a cheer of “Jolly good show!”
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Kensington club cowboys-quite the sight-
Keep their toys pointed at heaven and blast away.
The glen reinacts Guy Fawkes night,
From the silence of the other 364 days.
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“Jolly good, Philip!” Rupert’s 4 chins shake,
As the 21st bird is plucked from the air.
Into the vomit-yellow grass, a dog’s muzzle rakes,
Watched by the sly, red face of the Laird.
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Then the final whistle blows, and our heroes make lines
Towards 3 new Land Rovers, they waddle away.
Rupert bellows “Good Lord! We were on fire today!”
As they leave the feathered bodies lying in the field behind.
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And in the jeeps, laughing deep from well-stuffed paunches,
In thick posh accents - well Scotched- they bay
Things like “My baby was like a rocket launcher.”
“What a bargain. 5,000 pounds, I say!”
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And the peasants trundle back up the length of the hill,
And down the other side towards the cold bothy.
Their breaths steam the air as they reflect on the way,
£40, is £40. It’s something, still.
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Behind the bothy, the ditch is dug,
And all the winged bodies are thrown down.
The earth is patted over back on top.
A cold wind sweeps the flattened ground.
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The Rovers’ drive for mollycoddles at the castle.
Caviar and canopies on the table in wait.
In the darkening sky, a last ray of sunlight bates
The purple head of a lone Thistle.
The silent, purple head of a lone Thistle.
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The silent, purple head of a lone Thistle.
