On the way to the hospice,
The girls in the back seat,
Smell of cheese and onion crisps,
A pheasant has wandered across the dual carriageway,
Survived as far as the central reservation.
It pauses beside the metal railing
Among a few tufts of grass, and jerks
Its head in quick movements,
Taking in the strangeness of this place,
While straight ahead
A thunder of traffic streams by.
I drive on,
Knowing that certain death lies ahead.
It will continue, trailing its
Gleaming auburn tail behind it.
And so, on the way back home, it proves.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Nathalie Abi-Ezzi
would be pleased to hear them.