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Frances Wilson

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Somewhere

It’s a day so perfect it could shatter.
Sky is eggshell, air golden, molten,
just a hint of frost, like anticipation.

Near a wood, three children meet in secret.
Around them, leaves flare, blood-red and tawny.
Trees rustle drily, fall silent, whisper again.

Something’s up.  Could be a storm but the weather
is too mellow.  A flock of small birds whir up,
spatter the brightness, reform, reconnoitring.

Then, like a huge wave rising and breaking,
voices shouting, a shushing and trampling
through open undergrowth.  It’s the beaters -

and everywhere pheasant clatter up and drop
as gunshot cracks the day, now bruised and echoing.
The children crouch down, then break cover and run

for it.  Or maybe they saunter, giving the finger.
After all, this is England, October 12th, the shooting
season.  Only a dry run for terror.  These children

are shaken but safe.  Soon they’ll reach home.
Their homes are not shells, their parents not missing.
Somewhere else the real shooting is happening.

Page(s) 73

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