The life and death of Mrs Red:
I return through the meadow fields and cattle herds.
My pace relaxes
Once I feel the shade of trees against my back.
Dead autumn leaves crunch and shatter
Beneath my small delicate feet.
I ignore the odd feather
That floats to the ground behind me
From the chicken
I am bringing home for tea.
Fresh from the chicken shed
At a local farm.
A breeze stirs my coat.
Thick and coloured red. Real fur.
I reach home and I call my children out.
In a rush and tumble they greet me.
Five eager and hungry sets of eyes
Stare at me.
I pluck the chicken quickly.
My mouth salivating over the tender meat.
When it is clean we feast.
The chicken is devoured hastily.
I laugh inside as my two boys play tug
With a chicken leg bone.
One of my three girls rolls
Amongst the white feathers
Spotted with blood and dirt.
They stop. Dead still.
I hear the noises outside too.
I tell them to wait inside.
I approach the door cautiously
To see what visitors approach our home.
An unnatural light hovers over the ground outside.
I hide in the entrance within the darkness.
I don’t like the smell of who is out there.
You see her eyes reflected in the torch light.
You remember finding your chicken shed
In chaos and ruins,
A mess of feathers and blood.
You finger the trigger,
You take the shot.