The Hunt
Panicked tiny footprints, zigzag, sharp;
Each an arrow hungry for direction.
Across them, newer, the fully-fledged
Outlines of boots, strong, deep.
Ahead, the bootprints side by side,
Suddenly, decisively: imagine the arms.
Further on still, the arrows stagger,
Stop, and fading blood reds the way.
This is the tale the snow tells,
Along the ugly, thorn-jagged hedge.
Its record is brief, the warmer winds
Of oblivion will sweep in, soon, too soon.
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.
