Pheasant
Often we’d find one dead in the road.
Almost perfect. Maybe a small red smudge
on the breast or wing, like a thumb-print.
The head would flop as dad scooped it up
like a rugby ball and stowed it in the boot;
an unlooked-for gift.
Later, keeping out
of the kitchen, I’d be given the tail
feathers and a foot to play with. You’d pull
on the tendon and watch as the claws
tensed and relaxed, like a dragon’s –
or the grabber on a seaside slot machine.
* Having failed as a scrapyard worker, a handyman and a trainee teacher, Chris Tracy is hoping for better luck as a poet. He lives in Norwich.
