DUCK-SHOOTING
Anna Wigley

That was the summer you took me
on gunmetal mornings, early,
to strange deserted places:

wet ground, forests of rushes,
hard grass stubbling
from a sodden mattress.

Mindful of my privilege
I was silent as instructed,
trod softly in the wake

of your long legs and galoshes.
In the holster of your hip
the butt of your rifle jogged.

Toads the colour of mud
panted silently on mud ledges.
We caught the electric trace

of a snake. No wind.
just a cold smell of water
and the sky getting lower.

On a jigsaw of cracked sludge
you crooked a knee,
patted me down, slid the catch;

I saw nothing but the back of your head
as you leaned like a cat
into the eye of the sight,

clenching yourself round the gun
until you had it tamed,
and with a slow squeeze let death out.

The ducks were soft and loose
as bundles of silk.
Their rainbowed necks

lolled from the mouth of your bag.
Later we would pick the shot
from the stopped hearts

be soldierly and not mind
the sick tug of quills from flesh,
the higher bier of feathers.