Game
In the stolen hour
all the deer came hunting
in great herds
of a hundred pieces
they tested it with their shiny teeth
the blood
thickening the smooth muzzles
of roebuck
and doe
sickening to see
the frightened animals
fleeing
hair trigger brained
from the wood
in the undergrowth
at the bottom of the hill
bare bodies
made beautiful red ribbons
by the bramble
where they tried to hide their eyes
–
A flock of finches
feed on the dusty seeds
dropped by a dried teasel
head
beneath the bough
of an ailing beech tree
all of its masts
cleared
from around the trodden earth
pressed about its roots
the smooth bark
scarred
the old stag’s antlers
rubbed clean
of dried velvet
a single pink campion flower
a father begs his daughter
not to go to the river
–
Two men crouch in the big house
opposite the long barn
cocked beneath
an abstract line drawing hanging on the wall
fireweed and old Joe pye
blow smoke
through the cracked window
next to the door
upstairs
the little boy with the round face
and blonde hair
growing long on the sides
crawls to the clearing
in the centre of his cot
and cries
his mother whispers him a song
the sound the long grass makes
when it moves
outside a silver fawn stoops
and slowly circles
the blackened stems
lying on the ground
Daniel Cartwright-Chaouki is a gardener and writer from Birmingham, England. He writes about trees and plants (mostly) and people (sometimes) and other unimportant things. His work has featured both in print and online including The Lincoln Review, Steel Jackdaw, The Vanity Papers, Ink Sweat and Tears, The Lake, Alocasia and Mindfork.