Badger Season
Grunt has Dadâs old Webley & Scott twelve bore
with the dinged end and the open scroll chasing on the stock,
the right barrel choked by three quarters,
the left choked by a half, for close work.
Teague has his usual .22 for the fox
and his .243 because you never know when...
(he mutters something inaudible about Brock)
and â for fun with rabbits â heâs brought his four ten.
Both fancy trying their luck down at Rolster Bridge
but Colinâs trying to impress some bird he met online
by taking her lad lamping that side of the ridge
so they sit for a while in the car watching the moon
and comparing guns. Teague likes a ballistic head
which shatters on impact, leaving no trace. Grunt says
last year testing left thirty-five thousand cattle dead
so frankly anything goes; vaccination, poison, gas.
Far off down the valley they hear a vixen howl
calling her mate. After an hour they go back to the farm.
The sheep are grey ghosts in the kale,
their eyes bright dots reflecting the Cluliteâs beam.
Grunt sends in the kelpie. She looks like a fox.
Heâs saying how easy it is â the glint through your sight
could be the eye of a fox, or a torch face,
or a button. Even a mobile phone reflects light,
and these days kids are always â when a shot
cracks round the hills like a whip cracked right.
Teague raises his gun towards Rolster Bridge in salute
to what they both reckon is one less black-and-white.
They are in the field that Grunt has just cut for grass
when something whirls overhead, low and close by,
rotor blades slicing segments out of the stars
and a searchlight roving the hillside like one bright eye
that has both men and beasts running for cover.
After that thereâs nothing moving, so they go home.
Grunt is paunching rabbits in the yard when it goes back over
and he glances up as it passes, its low drone
sending the dog whimpering under the Fendt,
making his own teeth rattle and his stomach vibrate.
The trademark red and blue of the air ambulance
soaks the hills all around in crimson light.
He puts the meat in the fridge and turns on the PC
for a game of his favourite shoot-em-up, âBadger Season.â
As he blasts the black-and-whites red, the events of the evening
fall into place like cartridges into a gun,
the soft click into the breech, the gentle squeeze,
and a bad call which blows everything to kingdom come.
* lamping â hunting rabbits or other nocturnal animals using off-road cars and high powered lights
* to paunch a rabbit â to remove the innards
Full Load
The rumour runs round the parish like a case of lice:
the Garveys have gone down with TB.
Even Teague admits he doesnât know for sure
but at seven this morning Jo Tucker, thirty-three,
the best haulier for miles and not just on price
points her truck towards the Garveyâs place.
The verge runs red with rain and the Devon mud.
She flips the wipers on to double speed,
turns the radio on and, as the road starts to flood,
drops down a gear and slows to walking pace.
Been a while since Jo has driven down this way.
A line of young alders has sprung up along the brook
and a new gateway gapes in an old hedge
fresh laid with a chainsaw and baler twine for crooks.
Garveyâs farmhouse squats in a veil of grey.
Grunt, in waterproofs, heaven diluting his tea,
stands by the slate porch. Jo Tucker steels
herself for the sight of Gruntâs face. Just one look
and she doesnât need to ask, can already feel
the awful weight of a full load to Hatherleigh.
She backs up to the shed and drops the ramp,
slots the side gates in as Grunt opens the doors
and they watch the cows come out and sniff the air.
They smell of good grass and good straw,
the smoky molasses stink of Gruntâs silage clamp.
Grunt goes to push them on in but Jo says to wait,
thereâs plenty of room in the truck. She walks past
working their flight zone, and