On A Hill (Poetry)

High on an open shoulder of The Downs,
stretched out on wind-dried dirt yards from the road,
his brilliant corps lay passive on its side,
stiffening and gleaming in the sun.

It drew us to him, beckoned us with hues
that shimmered where his feathers burned in light —
their bronze-blue-greens, his red-ringed eye shut tight
against cool April’s stare.

How he came to die there wasn’t clear,
his splendid plumes immaculate except
for one evidence of ravage — where some passing rodent might
have scavenged or a crow paused for a bite.

As safely dead as any warrior who fell
anonymous, unmourned in any field,
now worms will take him, insects do their worst,
claim his glory, blend it with dull earth.

We held that moment, saved it in a frame,
fascinated, saddened, slightly awed —
photographed Good Friday on a hill,
felt pity that it wasn’t good for him.