Wilson's Words

The Life and Death of Mrs Red.

I return on the path home through the meadow fields
And cattle herds.
Once the trees throw a blanket of shade over me
I relax.
Dead autumn leaves crunch and shatter where I walk.
Many are twice the size of my mud brown shoes.
The odd white feather floats lazily behind
From the chicken I am bringing home for tea.
Caught only a few hours ago from a local farm.
A crisp autumn breeze urges me on.
My thick red coat keeps me warm.

At home I call out to my children.
In a rush of happiness, a tumble of excitement
and a mass of whirling limbs
They greet me.
Five pairs of rustic red, eager and hungry eyes
Stare up at me.
I immediately pluck the chicken bare
revealing its moon pale flesh.
After my nod I let the children feast.
I laugh as my two boys play
Tug-of-war with a leg bone.
One of my three girls rolls in the white feathers
Spotted with blood and dirt.

They stop.
Dead still.
I hear the noises too.
They whimper in fear of the dangerous world outside.
I approach the door cautiously.
I hide within the darkness of the entrance.
The love of a mother strengthening my movements.
A circle of light harsher than the sun skims the shrubs and ground left and right.
I catch a smell of unnatural power and dominance tainted with hatred and anger.
It reminds me of the dog packs, their teeth and claws, their calls echoing after me
as I run.

You see her eyes reflected in the torch light.
You remember coming home to find your chicken shed
In chaos and ruins,
A mass of soiled feathers and blood.
You finger the trigger.
You take the shot.