THE POACHER
- Aug 15
- 1 min read
By Angela Wye
Feet quietly trespassing
to night-fire the gun.
The moonlight
tracking the bullet to the prey.
Then the death throws
halted with a whack from a stick.
Food to go, raw and real,
cooked crudely, unmatched
to the pages of a recipe book
stained from the past endeavours
of fancy gluttony.