Cam and John I. (and anyone else), this is the irregular thing I came up with on Sunday morning. I had in mind to include it in my collection of Pittville poems, only to decide that the episode it describes is better mentioned in the intro.
The park was quiet that morning. Eileen called
for Jack, her Alsatian. He was stalking squirrels,
his hot breath rising rapidly through the cold.
She sighed. He always did this. Hunting thrills.
The cob, old George, was motionless by the pier,
without the pen and cygnets. This was strange.
She walked towards him. "Morning!" He didn't stir
and hung his head a little. Was he in pain?
"Oh God!" She dropped the lead, clapped hands to mouth.
What was this? Something – an arrow? – through his head?!
It entered by his left eye, coming out
beneath his jaw the other side. Looked bad.
She fumbled for her phone and called the police.
"I need the, what’s it? Wildlife people. Vale?"
Now, where was Jack? She stooped, picked up the lead.
"Come on!" He bounded over to her call.
A van pulled up. "He's there!" She pointed to George.
The man was holding a hook, the woman a bag.
The swan did not resist, just gave a snort
or two. "Who'd do this? They must be mad!"
"Ta, love." The man was opening up the boot;
the woman slid their passenger into place.
His head was low, his beak was trailing drool.
The van drove off, at speed, from Lower Lake.
🦢
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