Part of my upbringing was spent on a remote Hebridean island. Every year, in late spring or early summer, our Croft would be subject to a noisy hoard of 'strangers' who would shoot anything that rose up from the ground.
Apparently the Estate was owned by a conglomerate of Dutch or Arabs - don't recall which - and they had 'shooting rights'.
Shooters would arrive unannounced, spread out in a long skirmish line, then proceed to dispatch anything that flew up in front of them. When the massacre was over they would leave, driving off in several vehicles.
My grandfather would observe all this without comment, all the while puffing on his pipe. Then he would spit and get on with his work. As a child I felt outraged. Who...? What...? Shower of...!!! This is a poem inspired by that event.
Mortal Games
Here they come again
It's that time of year:
Those latter-day young aristocrats
In fashionable sporting gear.
Pealing laughter and frequent kills
Echo through the air
As they trample the scrub,
Scaring out gamey quail or snipe -
Trophies to boast of at the local pub.
When at last the killing is over,
Off to the local
In large range rover,
To brag to each of hunting skill,
And what a life it is to kill.
And left behind
On the killing ground
A littering of dead lapwing,
Lark and starling;
But those chaps are happy now,
Having bagged a brace or two
To show to darling.
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