A Poem by Tim Relf

17, the pair of them were,

and all summer I trailed in their wake:
that fired-cartridge smell alive
in the acres between us.

I’d bash sticks in hedges to flush rabbits, coppice-clap to flight pigeons,
shine night-lights for field eyes.
‘Chief squirrel spooker, you are, mate,’ they’d say, which made me feel older
and younger.

Then one day, I had a gun —
only a single barrel, but mine,
and one afternoon oiling the barrel in my bedroom, a crow

looped

and something about it nearer then farther then nearer
— and the way one of them had got a car now —
made me fire and down

it fell.

I found legs
and a black noise and one eye emptying
so I kicked it — to end its misery, kicked, trying to get the head, had to be
the head, but still that eye, that why, so I stamped — stamped, just die, please,
how hard can it be, surely it’s just a thing, like flapping or flying — then one final
peck, as if to say: No or please or yes or die. I covered that bird with leaves,
laid twigs over leaves.

Four o’clock —
mum would be home soon. She’d ask about my day, and I wouldn’t be able to tell her.
Wouldn’t tell the older boys, wouldn’t tell anyone — haven’t, either,
until now:

about how I stood, almost 17,
with the broken bird
at my feet.

Tim Relf’s poems have appeared in such titles as The Spectator, Acumen and The Rialto. He is currently poet-in-residence at Leicester Botanic Garden. He was a runner-up in the Prole Laureate competition 2022, has been awarded a place on Writing East Midlands’ 2022/23 mentoring scheme and is an alumnus of Faber's Advanced Poetry Academy. His most recent novel, published by Penguin, has been translated into more than 20 languages. He also contributes to Poetry News, Poetry Wales and BookBrunch.