A brace

An early Christmas present;
the bright plumes and stiff feathers,
heads hanging like sacks,
the curled feet gripping futile air.
I hung them in the shed -
it didn't matter they were dead -
and took them out some weeks later
the colours as vivid, the eyes
now hollows that recede into
dark depths - I stared they didn't.
I carried them by their feet
like old hands seeming rough
but smooth to the touch - like metal.
I laid them on the garden table
their heads lolling over the edge
beaks open a touch.
I pulled at the feathers surpirsed at
how many there were now dancing in the
December breeze and seeing - after an age
the naked skin - took the knife
not knowing where to start, the glow of
an early sunset, ginger bread noises
from kids inside: I sliced clean off
the head of one and found the
bladder for grain.
I watched as the pellets fell to the floor
I would not eat this bird!
I snipped off its wings and wrenched free
the legs and then the same for its mate
ripping and piling flesh on flesh
and flung the corpses in the trash.
Somewhere in my freezer sits a pie uneaten
Sometime soon it will go the way of all
flesh.