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.
A miracle.
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,
Its wrongness,
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.

Nathalie Abi-Ezzi

If you have any thoughts on this poem, 
Nathalie Abi-Ezzi  would be pleased to hear them.