To do this to such a thing

that was, this morning, so fine a thing

so red and real a thing, so running free

a thing

to do this thing to such a thing

so that now, this evening, it is no more

a thing than a mud-mangled thing

bedraggled thing its eyes popped out

as if on springs a cartoon thing a wrecked

and torn and bone-broken thing its entrails

trailing as the thing is held up bowel hanging

out like a string of chipolata things

From a sunning itself thing

russet light-catching thing young-rearing thing

to a red running thing over-blown worn down

chased to ground thing

eyes on stalks heart thrown to the dogs

Fiona Owen. To be included in her next anthology Going Gentle

First published in New Welsh Review and reproduced by their kind permission.