Brock
By night's imperfect light
lost in approaching dawn
a badger lone, limps home
from levelled gun and prodding stick
to sleep and shelter down.
His heart, his gallant breast
bloodied, torn
as sad eyes droop the loss
of country pleasures so to mourn.
Half-starved of woodland table d' hote
a prisoner of sport
for those whose voices shout about
and call him out to play.
And then a shout
'Down there'
They've seen his snout.
Living walls, wet, damp
a prisoner-of- war camp
leaning, screaming in
against his bloodied coat
weather soaked.
A home of temporary refuge now
from baiting shouts, hidden hoods
'A babe in the woods.'
As darkening blue bells
doze silent in approaching sun
shadow his worn out life long done.
Page(s) 15
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