And for sir?

For me it must be grouse; for the flavour

yes,

but mostly for the sound: the tearing

of skin as it comes away from breast;

the slurp

as the back is sucked clean of tender flesh;

the crack

as ribs break sharply into two

to make way for my tongue, their empress -

all these exquisite as only things from God can be,

but nothing beats the mortal ping,

so high and so soon dead

of a piece of shot falling onto china.

At once it is the fireworks of gunshot springing

like monkeys off the trees,

the pervy panting of the dogs,

the whispered arc of the falling bird,

and the silence of its last, unseen

flails upon the grass.

There is just left the as if reverential absence

of the hanging shed,

a perch of guiltless penitents, to transform

this silent music to the holy

before we’re back to linen shifting,

the echoes of this room

and metal on china once again.