A Stone In the Cold 4
The thicket moves, my aim must not waver;
with strengthened arms I bend my bow of yew:
My eyes pierce the brush, intent to savor
the sights of a good hunt, an arrow true.
The bracken parts, rattling, empty sighs;
My draw fingers quake from the constant chill.
My quarries' breath floats to the clouded sky,
my own breath muffled as I track my kill.
Overhead, an arrow in deadly arc
speeds toward the bear I'm seeking, still as stone;
A shadow moves, the arrow strikes its mark.
The hand that loosed the shaft was not my own.
I am a man shadowed; death comes knocking:
The hunter hunted; the past comes stalking.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
