by Corinna Board

After the shock of discovery,
I’m drawn to the body –

larger than life, broken –
a predator beaten at its own game.

I’ve never seen a buzzard
this close; its wings are splayed

like an angel; mackerel-striped
feathers intact, the rest is a mess

of plumes, dampened by blood
now rusted to a deeper hue.

The head is hidden under leaves,
only the hooked beak is visible;

clamped shut, useless.
I’m glad I can’t see its eyes.

Wood anemones have seeded
themselves around the dead

bird like a handful of stars,
as if the sky, too, has fallen.

Corinna Board teaches English as an additional language in Oxford. She grew up on a farm and her work is often inspired by nature and the rural environment. She has been published in Spelt, Anthropocene, The Alchemy Spoon and elsewhere. Her debut pamphlet is due this year. Find her on Twitter @CorinnaBoard or Instagram @parole_de_reveuse.