‘Seeing something die,’ my father had said
as he showed me how to string the net
‘is a rite of passage for a lad like you.’
I pitied the hares we ensnared in it –
trembling hearts and quivering limbs,
their tremors suppressed under his shoe.
One day I watched as he let the hare loose.
He seemed to enjoy watching it run
through the heather, over the moor, then
take it down with a bullet from his gun.
On my way to retrieve it, I knelt
by its side, and found that no bullet
had pierced its hide. ‘Even better,’
said my father, and drew his knife
…………………………..from his belt.
‘People pay less for a bloodied pelt’.
Poet for June