Feral Child looked for wolves and found a fox
on the golf course - they both hiding, both seen,
she in her orange coat and she in Khaki green.
Both camped out in bushes of thorns, as bold
as ghosts who can't be caught, snapping the traps
layed by the hunters employed the night before.
Feral Child, a scruffy dove with one wing on her
right shoulder and a swag bag of treasures on her left,
caught the swaggering golfer straight in the eye.
A whittled craft box in her hand, she would emerge,
cocking her head: Can't even carry your own bag Sir,
to escape your Sunday home? I'll sell you these...
and lifting the lid on all the bounty she had found:
each for a quid, or these: two for a pound!
Her camps were legendary, never owned so never lost.
It was strange to see them hunted down...
in others' dreams...she couldn't save the blind moles.
But the other creatures dying in the bush found her -
or the fox's grin - whichever first would quench her thirst;
as it should be, quick; an edible heart, a twist or rip of the neck.
Dead. She would watch the kill, collect the poison pellets left
that scattered her tracks with future cries - so civilised,
the hunter, the guest golfer - and they called her Feral Child.