The Hunt
In diminishing sunshine
I sit back in long grass.
Silent and vigilant
soon my quarry will pass.
My eyes face the forest,
fixed firm on grass verge.
Observing as shadows,
and all the trees merge.
As darkness succeeds,
before the moons somber rise.
Woeful whistling of wings,
betray a duck as it flies.
Far below from the creek,
a lone frog starts it’s croak.
Soon followed by others,
as if sharing a joke.
First my skin feels the breeze,
as the cabbage trees flap.
Dry leaves knock together,
supplying a crowd clap.
My pulse sharply quickens,
to the faint snap of a twig.
A startled bird chatters,
my prey must be big.
As the moonlight arrives,
I strain my eye and my ear.
Looking and listening,
for my quarry of deer.
I’m breathing so deeply
Did that gorse bush just move?
My hearts beating fiercely
Perhaps the sound of some hooves?
Suddenly, a noble old stag,
Emerges, into full sight.
Emits his rut enraged roar,
My neck hairs stand up in fright.
Looking quickly through lens,
aiming to be silent and quick.
This proud beast will soon vanish,
at the first sound of a click.
His antlers are heavy,
they’ve had plenty of wear.
One shot with the camera,
and he’s no longer there.
Copyright © Mark Woods | Year Posted 2016
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