It was the indignance of pheasant, whose call was
shrill with the catch of barely constrained hysteria,
that drew the gaze to the russet sward
of low lying meadow. He was stalking the far
corner of blackthorn hedge, barely seen for
the red fescue and maroon of docken seed head.
And the rich, bloody shades of the sunken pitch
were an anomaly against the pale stubble of bordering fields.
The whole was watched over with the blank windowed eye
of the farmhouse on the rise, dourly starring
with Presbyterian gloom, whose staunchness
was taunted by the clown fish flash of goldfinches –
mastering the joy of darting by
the doorstepped sprawl of a degenerate looking cat.