I am driving, dreaming of home,
following golden gorse walls
to Anglesey.
Screened from quick, Spring light
four sheep huddle childlike
under a climbing frame.
I will have a Welsh Summer,
wear a cowboy hat with feathers and sleep outdoors
beneath the silent soar of Kites and stars.
Waking at a blind bend
I hear the thud
and grind to a halt to attend,
two startled eyes look back,
a long way from home and badly shook
I finish it all with a fatal Chinese burn.
I will hang him in the wood shed,
hang him by his feet
until blood drains from tender flesh.
Sleeves rolled up,
I take the bounty to my boot.
Possession being nine tenths of the law
pheasant stew will be my home coming loot.
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