You privileged people with kudos and power

each to quench their hunger, devour

quiche and the prawns in delicate dressing

with us children approaching, salivating, pressing.

Shock horror, baited breath, the anger, the sadness - the centre-piece death.

For your eyes are pork pies, your nose is a pose,

You mouth a question of whys. The ears that you hear

as my eyes shed a tear are sucked dry till they start on your toes.

Beyond disbelief, by harnessing grief, I reach out to cuddle your saddle,

Clearing, rasping, pushing away, people I cannot handle.

Your rump is swollen, artificially red,

Scored with a knife from your tail to your head,

showing ribs and innards still blackened by fire,

holding him tight to his green funeral pyre.

Crowd around, look, see munching fearsome gaping carnivores lunching.

For the brawn from your brain

bears the weight of my pain

aspic jellied and pink in neat wedges.

As the chef slices ham I scream at the man

"He's my pet! My pig . . . Hedges!"

Andy Smith,

Totton, Southampton

Daily Echo poet-in-residence Polly Clark, pictured, says: "This is a strange poem, and I liked the way it sometimes wasn't clear which was pig and which was carnivore . . . "

You can e-mail Polly on polly.clark@soton-echo.co.uk