I was six when I first saw kittens drown. <br />Dan Taggart pitched them, 'the scraggy wee shits', <br />Into a bucket; a frail metal sound, <br /> <br />Soft paws scraping like mad. But their tiny din <br />Was soon soused. They were slung on the snout <br />Of the pump and the water pumped in. <br /> <br />'Sure, isn't it better for them now?' Dan said. <br />Like wet gloves they bobbed and shone till he sluiced <br />Them out on the dunghill, glossy and dead. <br /> <br />Suddenly frightened, for days I sadly hung <br />Round the yard, watching the three sogged remains <br />Turn mealy and crisp as old summer dung <br /> <br />Until I forgot them. But the fear came back <br />When Dan trapped big rats, snared rabbits, shot crows <br />Or, with a sickening tug, pulled old hens' necks. <br /> <br />Still, living displaces false sentiments <br />And now, when shrill pups are prodded to drown <br />I just shrug, 'Bloody pups'. It makes sense: <br /> <br />'Prevention of cruelty' talk cuts ice in town <br />Where they consider death unnatural <br />But on well-run farms pests have to be kept down.<br /><br />Seamus Heaney<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-early-purges/
