Pheasant
There it stood,
At first I thought
A clumsy statue
Made of grey concrete
Next to the terracotta pot
On the flagstone patio
Beside the grey-green weathered aluminium
Of the glasshouse.
A garden monument
A cheap and cheerful complement
Just adding to
The artificiality
Of the timber decking
And the chestnut fence
Daubed russet red
With weatherproof non-fading paint.
And then it moved
So swift at first
That I supposed
I had just been distracted
Merely temporarily
By an unkind
Trick of the morning light.
Stock-still again
It resumed its pose -
Another movement
Quick as imagination,
Then stillness once more
- A pheasant
Not a manufactured monument
But living statuary
Constructed,
Not by human hand.
Tawny, mottled,
For it was female,
Not the scintillating
Garish look-at-me cock bird
All feathered red and green pomposity,
Master of all he surveys.
But still, the humble hen
Personified pride:
This spot is my domain
She seemed to say
In sheer unruffled permanence
As if the entire plot belonged to her.
poem by C. Richard Miles
Added by Poetry Lover
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