that one hind leg caught in a snare
hampering his leap back to freedom
splayed against a tree trunk
he could only wait
for life to slip away
as the dying sun’s rays
warmed his belly
turning soft white into mild gold
his amber eyes open
gazing into a place he knew
until even that faded into blank
beside him a pheasant
his dead weight soon to be stripped of its heraldic colours
eyes lidded over in resignation
a split second after a bullet made sure
no time was left for memories and regret   they call this tableau
Dead Game and Fruit
but what a manifesto
for the vigour and textures of being alive
for you to curl your tongue
around the sweetness of a grape
to fill the hollow of your palm
with the weight of a peach
before sinking your teeth
into its yielding flesh
truly a land of light and plenty
over whose shoulder
watch yellowing uneasy skies

Janet Hujon