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a poem by
Martin Jervis
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The Young Pig

Hit a young pig by accident -
The memory of squealing and shrieking
Echoed in the ears for days.

A small group of black pigs -
Frightened - noise of engines
Away from spinning wheels.

Change of direction

Veering left - brakes and screams.
Fleshy bump - swerving right -  fleeting glimpses -
Porcine head and quivering snout
Hide of black bristles
Vanishing into the scrub.

Blood? Gore? Gone quickly,
Happens fast - we stop - move on.

The road is empty - normality returns -
Smell the brevity of life.

"Not expect change of direction"
Said the driver - scratching his chin -
With the resignation of a man
Who runs over pigs every day.

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