The Mole Catcher
By Ivor Griffiths
I stand in the shed and see a dead pig
In the tree, my dad hacking its head.

Looking down, my boots covered in blood, at
black and congealed, black pudding clumps, clinging to my feet.

Crashing snapping branches, porcine pugilism,
a dead pig struggling free

at four years old I killed a mole
shoved poison and matches down the hole

walking outside up a muddy track
tree lined and cloying mud,

I wish my pig had not
been killed by dad.

I loved that pig and gave it a name
the name I gave it was dad.
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