PHEASANTS

I watched two pheasants fight over a mate
Bobbing heads dipped and ribs pressed to soil
Tails cocked, each sized the other up
Feathers set aflame in majesty
Talons scraping for a sprung attack
Wattles swollen scarlet, wings akimbo
Resplendent in white collars, dressed to kill

And I wondered
Would they duel and die to procreate
If they knew their young were destined for the gun?

Come autumn, their plumes blend with the beeches
And they’re flushed from the miscanthus by men
And loud booms. A bouquet of beating wings
And fear floods the air, squarks deafen and then
Silence. Bodies hit the forest floor
Game over
Conditioned soft mouths retrieve ringed necks
Wrung in a larder deep inland

Pre-writ fate awaits
Whatever food-chain rung our dactyls grip
Knowledge not powerful enough
To override an instinct hardwired tight
We will go forth and multiply
On a planet doomed by our own fair hands

Acrylic on canvas by Laura Grist