ramblings and things

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Rough Shooting

I used to love those wide flat fields any autumn or winter's night
Striding down the cart track under the cold starlight.
Walking between my brother and dad, shot gun under my arm,
Broken and uncocked, until we left the farm
And reached out usual stands on the cold wet land.
We were there for the mallards, from Russia my dad said
And most that crossed his track would soon end up dead.
We didn't shoot for pleasure, just to fill the pot -
Barry and dad worked on the land and didn't earn a lot.

           I didn't do much shooting
           Just stood there in a dream
           Listening to the night
           From the bank of the stream
           That wasn't really a stream
           Just an overburdened drain
           That broke its banks every year
           From snow melt or from rain

Against their mighty 12 bores my four–ten couldn't compete
But just being there with them made my night complete
And if we'd had a good night I ‘d be allowed the thrill
Of carrying home one of the bags stuffed with the kill.
We were very close then me and Barry and dad
Just a slow gentle countryman with his two lads
Such a long gone past era - shooting now leaves me cold
But what amazing adventures for a boy not twelve year old



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Rough Shooting