The Swamp

This is a poem in protest about duck shooting

THE SWAMP

The wind an unseen spirit, sweeps across the swamp
Grasses bow in adoration at its passing
A silent sea of green, an empty sky,
Greet the watchers waiting for the birds to rise

With flash of wing and strident call,
Birds rise from reed and marsh - a thunderous cloud.
A leaden hail explodes,
Shattering the pristine dawn

Writhing, reeling bodies drop in throes of death
Skies turn gray at wanton waste.
Hunters wade in haste, with avid hands outstretched
Lest birds meant for plates, escape

The wind a mourning spirit, whimpers through the reeds,
While the sun, like one ashamed,
Dropped its head below the distant range
Darkness fell - a shroud - - concealing bloody deed.

Gwenneth Leane