What they do not see


The thread of compassion is

broken, their hearts lie bleeding,

drained pale, and yet they never

know, those who scrute the skies, gun

muzzle raised, never see when

some small craft of light bone and

feather falls so far from home.



Tell the wind the story of

how you followed your passion

for death (the death of others)

into the coverts, where life

lay trembling after a night

of cold rain, and snuffed it out.

Dare its cold disdain, minable.



And when the stars look down and

the sun sends light into each

covert where those feathers and

scraps of fur cold as night lie

stiff in reproach, do you see

a stolen life in that soiled

beauty? Are you the wiser?


Published by

Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

2 thoughts on “What they do not see”

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