3rd Prize Poem
THIRD PRIZE: LESLEY BURT
Decorous, she follows her husband’s gaze;
he stands to one side; shows posterity
his property: wife, meadows, sheaves and trees.
She sits upright, clenched tight by corsetry.
He leans on her seat, nonchalant; one elbow
holds his gun with barrel pointing down.
Still, we must appreciate he has the power
to fire it at the game birds that he owns.
Her lap is a cascade of ice-blue silk;
crossed ankles close those thin thighs in together.
Over his verdant landscape, dark clouds skulk:
Mr Andrews does not dictate the weather;
but the dog watches his master’s face, his stance;
he will run, retrieve, at once, given the chance.