The Divorcee

Martyn Crucefix

All I recall of him is the day he showed me
a gleaming air-gun with its tobacco-tin
of fluent pellets. He motioned to a pair
of sparrows on the line – and shot one down.
The other ruffled, but held its ground,
black eyes anxious, searching left and right
– killed by the grunt of the re-loaded gun,
a crash of weeping feathers on the ground.