By Ivor Griffiths
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I stand in the shed and see a dead pig In the tree, my dad hacking its head.
Looking down, my boots covered in blood, at black and congealed, black pudding clumps, clinging to my feet.
Crashing snapping branches, porcine pugilism, a dead pig struggling free
at four years old I killed a mole shoved poison and matches down the hole
walking outside up a muddy track tree lined and cloying mud,
I wish my pig had not been killed by dad.
I loved that pig and gave it a name the name I gave it was dad.
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