365 Poems/102 Roadkill (Rough First Draft)


Your eyes are missing,

and tar thick black blood

has left a pattern on the road.


I touch your beak, part it slightly.

I’m awash with mixed

feelings of wonder and grief.


Your well developed breast muscle

has been eaten away, but your strong,

armoured, arrow like feet are intact,

and softer than I imagined.


I want to cure them in salt brine,

hang them around my neck.


You weigh the same as half a bag

of sugar. I wrap you in greaseproof

paper and a white carrier bag,

like a funeral shroud.


I hear the curlew, pause to listen,

lean my back against the cool,

dry stone wall.


There is some comfort in it,

as their always is in well built things,

that have passed the tide of time.


Here, on the moor,

there is absolute peace,

and how beautiful the landscape

as the shadows hunt and then settle.