To Do This Thing To do this to such a thing that was, this morning, so fine a thing, so red and real a thing, so running free a thing; to do this thing to such a thing so that now, this evening, it is no more a thing than a mud-mangled thing, bedraggled thing, its eyes popped out as if on springs, a cartoon thing, a wrecked and torn and bone-broken thing, its entrails trailing as the thing is held up, bowel hanging out like a string of chipolata things. From a sunning itself thing, russet light-catching thing, young-rearing thing, to a red running thing, over-blown, worn down, chased-to-ground thing. Eyes on stalks. Heart thrown to the dogs. This poem is published in Going Gentle (Gomer, 2007) Note This poem was written after seeing an image in Animal Aid's Outrage magazine.