Joan's Sharebook 

Remorse

A hunter shot at a flock of geese 
That flew within his reach. 
Two were stopped in their rapid flight 
And fell on the sandy beach.

The male bird lay at the water's edge 
And just before he died 
He faintly called to his wounded mate 
And she dragged herself to his side.

She bent her head and crooned to him 
In a way distressed and wild 
Caressing her one and only mate 
As a Mother would a child.

Then covering him with her broken wing 
And gasping with failing breath 
She laid her head against his breast, 
A feeble honk ... then death.

This story is true, though crudely told. 
I was the man in the case. 
I stood knee deep in the drizzle and cold 
And the hot tears burned my face.

I buried the birds in the sand where they lay, 
Wrapped in my hunting coat, 
And I threw my gun and belt in the Bay 
When I crossed in the open boat.

Hunters will call me a right poor sport 
And scoff at the thing I did; 
But that day something broke in my heart, 
And shoot again? God forbid!