Tuis » Algemeen » Koeitjies & kalfies » "The Francolin" by STEPHEN WATSON
| "The Francolin" by STEPHEN WATSON [boodskap #17080] |
Wed, 26 August 1998 00:00 |
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THE FRANCOLIN
Stephen Watson
The francolin with the crippled foot, much smaller than the others,
is hopping, as it does each day, through the frosted dirt,
scavenging with the full-grown birds, in a cold mountain sunrise,
for breadcrumbs swept off porches, pickings frozen overnight.
Watching it this morning, I know it won't last long,
It's hopping on its good leg, across pools of crusted ice,
struggling to keep up with the others, its cry for food
more like the bleating of the malformed lamb I saw herded by
just yesterday, its legs like stilts, broken outwards at each knee,
destined to die still sooner than the other, newborn lambs,
all destined for the slaughterhouse come early spring.
And I, still watching behind the window, realising why
I've never cared for animals - because I hate to see them like this ;
being one who still believes, because of something from way back,
that, no matter what, they'll always end up like this, suffering ;
and now recalling that, even as a child, I hated to have pets
because of this, the kind of love, pity they'd arouse in me -
I get up from the table, where I'd been struggling since first light.
I get up, remembering. And pause, as a person mostly does
when his thinking takes the from of remembering, nothing more.
I hesitate a moment longer before I realise - before I leave
the desk, the window, the other work with which I'm struggling,
and go out into the morning frost where that lamed, small bird
is still hopping on its good leg, lagging far behind the others.
I go out to break, to share the crust this francolin clearly needs :
the surplus bread, I'd half forgotten, I almost always have with me.
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