a poem by
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.