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Monday, 22 February 2016

Mouse

Mouse

Alerted by the noise,
the unmistakeable sound of victory,
Growling, howling, crying, mewling,
of his voices mixed together.
Whether pleased with himself
or ashamed of what he’s done,
The hunter stands defiant
astride the tiny bloody body.

Chased away, scolded, shouted at,
he makes a quick escape,
leaving his trophy
To renew his hunt out in the field,
driven by his nature,
a feral instinct to track and pounce
upon creatures smaller than himself,
To eat some warmer, living food.

Meanwhile, prey discarded,
Eyes glittering in terror,
Its body still warm,
snout and tail intact,
mangled limb, gory gash exposed,
life-force seemingly expired,
Lies inert beneath the table.

Left alone for but a moment
while collecting kitchen paper,
rubber gloves, dust-pan, disinfectant,
paraphernalia of removal and disposal
of a corpse unwanted
Intended for a bin, not a burial.

But the deathplace now deserted,
the body gone,
disappeared elsewhere,
smears of blood and body fluids,
shining, wet and fresh,
Crawled away in agony and fear,
to hide and tremble
in place unknown
to look out, spying upon the world,
Watching and waiting,
for a slow and lingering demise.


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

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