The Hunter

Paul Mitchell

In the half light of an ancient forest, overhead
gently rustling lie the leaves, what timeless
wonder this verdant place, a cool refuge from
modern toil.

I start to think of what has gone before, who has
lain under these vaulted boughs? A hunter, perhaps,
in ages past, pausing whilst pursuing some stately
Hart.

Tired and thirsty the hunter rests his weary frame,
drawing in the peaceful contentment that pervades
this sceptred grove. Drawing long on his water, he
stands refreshed ready to commence his chase.

Stalking slowly he spies the beast, this noble beast
of Moon spun white, nervously he holds his breath
while the Stag looks round, it's wariness almost
physical. Raising his bow he mutters a prayer,
calling on spirits to steady his aim.

Straight flies the Arrow tipped with Flint, the Deer
starts but its too late. The arrow hits and with a
frightened sound the animal falls, blood welling up
from a grievous wound. Life's last tortured breath
whispers from its graceful frame leaving it a blood
stained shadow of its former self.

Standing over his glorious prey the hunter marvels at
its regal head, crowned with Antlers of many points.
Once again the Hunter prays, he thanks the beast who
now lies dead wishing it well in its next life.