Wobbly Webley

A wobbly Webley in my fist.
“Hold it steady….” instructed Bert.
“Aim along it. Oh, you’ve missed.”
At least the blackbird wasn’t hurt.

Not so the others lying prone,
Neatly cratered through the breast,
The pellets slicing flesh and bone.
Top shot, top shit, Bert aimed the best.

What kind of man, I thought, was this,
Who spread the seed then hid and waited?
Preferred a slap to a loving kiss
And left the birds so cold and cratered?

The birds and I were creatures trapped
By the need for seed and daily bread;
But could my childish mind adapt
To this, the black and feathered dead?

My hindsight gives me perfect aim
To kill the thoughts that Bert gave me.
He lived a life of hurt and shame;
I live by kindness. Long dead he.

David Hulme.