The Hunt

Little hops by the river. Stop.

Your rustlings have caught her eye. Look up,

And there she circles, burning, considering

When to crash through the windless air

And take you home for tea.

 

Never give her the chance she needs.

Don’t lose your chance,

Don’t dance to her tune,

But you have to run, run ragged

To the warren where she can’t fly,

Where she can’t swoop and seize your

Delicate little bag of a body,

Springy little legs to shove yourself

Across the damning lawn.

 

You start. Unfreeze. Evade. Too late now,

Wrapped in the dark tarpaulin of her wing.

This sun-bird, talons glinting

Through a gown of feathers, inescapable

As the passing of the hours, leaves

A golden shadow on the grass. Too late.

The moon was your stopwatch, your mirror.

Now you lie side by side, consumed,

Folded in her year-long warmth.

 

These are endings. We’ve read them in the face

Of every stone, every beast, every book

The end of every day, every scene, every look.

This ravenous sun devours as it shields us from the night

But even in the dark, the moon can bring a gleam of light.