The hunters and their dogs are going home,
Their secret sworn to silence,
footprints crunching through the snow;
Agreed the parish priest should never know.
They walk beneath a sky of sickly hue,
A tale not fit for telling
and an angry sullen mood
Anticipate the taste of sordid food.
Tonight they’ll fill their stewpot to the brim.
Some meals may ease one’s hunger,
others eat you from within,
With nothing gained confessing to the sin.
The hunters and their dogs are going home.
White flowers on the hillside, spell out welcome to me
I learnt the names of most of them, walking with my "tadcu"*
He told me all about them, how Garlic is good for wounds
The names of the songbirds as they flew close to the high ground
Knew where to find a hare for the stewpot when it's cold
Or the sly old fox sneaking in the long grass, being bold
The hill has a stream running briskly to the base
From where it meets its sisters making it a river with much haste
Fish flopping about jumping over rocks evading the net
Pictures burnt into my mind which I will never forget.
*. Tadcu --- Grandfather
Penned. 11/06/2014
ice in the middle of the carpet
the melting is the healing
the steam rises in the exact place where you said you hate me
stewpot in the corner of the living room
the bubbling over is the tension
the steam creeps out and provides an interesting type of aromatherapy around the exact room where you expressed you desire for emancipation
person clutching an ailing heart
the tachycardia is the stressing
this time there is no steam, but there is a misty gloom that sucks the life out of a life....when you told me to go....
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.