On the Rack

By Kathy Maclean - 28/01/2008

In the dark shed
a rail full of trophies,
little teal I think.
Crude red twine twisted
twice round feathered necks.
So dead, yet snuggled close
in pairs like braces,
dribbles of blood on braided beaks,
eyes as cold as fish.

And the biggest said, do you know
I'd rather not be here.  I want to go home.

Home was where I fled the fox,
took stock, saw men with guns
not locked
and black retrievers,
plus those with sticks
who shouted 'Mine' as I fell.

And the biggest said, do you know
I'd rather not be here.  I want to go home.

Home was where we were tricked
to eat the wheat and other treats,
from feeding stations.  Mid-water,
decoys beckoned, bobbed, flickered,
then tempted.  We trusted
their plastic floating backs.

And the biggest said, do you know
I'd rather not be here.  I want to go home.

Home to a marsh where a day ago
we flew free and high, or dabbled
at grasses and wild ferns in the shallow
depths of our fleet.

 

May we please
fly back to our marsh, where the geese  
always visit, on their journey south
because it's warmer?  

Last night two were felled by the men
in black, to pick up their tally of death.
Now they droop  at the end of the rack.

And the biggest said, do you know
I'd rather not be here.  I want to go home.

Is there a home where we can safely be
to gather with our kind, preen our wings
and stay awhile, to mate and swim,
rear our young in nests among the reeds?
There used to be, before men got smarter.
I remember that time.


And the biggest said, I do know a place
so fine you'll want to stay. Men throw bread;
they stare and shout but they don't have guns.
Their dogs are roped.  Have hope!
They'll take your photo,
not your life or mine.
This place?  It's called ...
The Serpentine.  

Stay close snuggle-duck, dream on
and we might get lucky.

 

Kathy Maclean