Broadly stood, high on fern covering crisp white hills.
I stop, wait for autumn orange leaves to hush beneath my boots.
Stamping. Misty breath.
My ears await the report of guns.
The twisted necks of quarry move like a clock, brought swiftly to me in the warm, welcoming mouths of my dogs.

Ditches complete with frozen streams,
And the frost's air gathering upon.
Our supper seems hopeful.
The pitter-patter  of led falling through the naked woodland,
And the familiar smell of a freshly oiled gun passes by me momentarily in
the air.
I am in a moment back at the kitchen table with my father. Cleaning,
daring to handle and touch the broken weapon.
The tutting of my mother having lost her space to sew.

Pheasant and woodcock fill the trailer high
Can I wait until it is time to pluck them.
My tweed stitched hat resting above,
Wellington boots tied.
I feel alive and I see everything
Every man, bird and dog. I track their course and note when they cross
mine.
My early morning rise not tiring but alerting
And I pause at the gate and wonder not for the first time how birds run on top of fresh snow.