An October Stag

 

We startled even him,

coming as we did, backwards.

Retracing our frosted steps

over the grassy ridge.

 

He’s caught our trespass scent,

head angled and snout twitching

in the betraying wind. It must be on his side.

 

The herd has broken up

now you’ve gathered your beautiful wives

that the heather still hides.

Not so you. You are the crowned king of the woods.

 

Announcing your domain, fightless often,

with a low, trumpeting call.

Resonance in the trees for an image –

I can almost see your dappled, snow-freckled calf,

through eight months of rain and spring suns.

 

His rusty hide is greying slightly.

Strutting broadside, nodding in accord.

A smooth antler array, for God’s handhold.

A thirteen pointer,

and a boast at the equine dressage.

Sand and sawdust replaced by life,

to an audience of ascending lapwings.

He gathers his hind harem, preciously

guarding them from our hapless eyes.

 

A refuge of forest in the clearing.

A prisoner’s dilemma for freedom.