Winter's whistling wind's whittling knife,
cutting wild memories in a mackerel skied night.
Etching a crouched mind, entrenched in myriad mud
which anticipates aerial shadows evading the flood.
Senses listening, watching in the realm of twilight,
searching, frozen but focused, for the signs of flight.
Now, Time's tide creek invades, up to the wader's knee,
signalling an imperative need to retreat from the sea.
But the shot from far right, as it heralds the coming,
immobilising the lone hunter as the tide keeps running.
Senses tightened ranging, around the face in the night,
receive the unseen whistling as fowl take flight.
The eyes transfixed, between muzzle and sound,
lock onto moonlit aerial silhouettes found.
Now the hunter, skulking even deeper; safety off, into the sea,
silently recites the Wildfowler's plea.
"Lord let it be identified as a fowl for the pot,
and secondly in range and a sporting, clean, shot"
Tom Wylie copyright 2002For the
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