From the Hamlets
to the have-nots they come to feast
on the early seasons’ breeding;
beaten into breaking cover,
tradition, vague as the mist,
is lip service for the brochure;
the slap panic of wings
heralds the rising of the low slung stock.

The futile silhouette falls,
not stalked with one arrow
a day in the making
or one bullet priced above saffron
but by proliferation, triangulation,
muscle memory and an expensive Italian
that appeases their blood lust
by favourable odds.

Sport lies in an equal opponent.

© D. Archer. July 2014