Sunday morning

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Sunday morning and the hunt is on

chasing belling sounding

through the quiet fields

where quarry quivers in fear.

This world is raving

madness-tainted

where peace once walked

barbarity stalks

red-handed—

the dream gone sour.

 

One drop

the rain begins

a curse—

the scent trails fresh and singing

sky weeps but not for us

feet trample

and in the rain-whisper

shots and death

where warm life scurried nurtured and loved.

 

In the gloom

I see the sky weep blood.

 

We walk

stalk

stirring ghosts and noise

displacing the silence of growing things

with our death wishes

and all our yesterdays shadows

cast by tomorrow’s fading hopes

and the monolithic mountain

of today’s body count.

Published by

Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

12 thoughts on “Sunday morning”

    1. Thanks, Merril. It’s so depressing. They’re at it every day, but Sunday is the worst. Today wasn’t too bad as they go. Only one close by. The organised hunt was out of sight. We could hear the dogs baying but they were over in the other valley 😦
      The dogs follow a scent better when it’s wet. The hunters don’t like long periods of sunny dry weather.

    1. Is that the walking in the shadow of the valley of death one? Yes, I see what you mean, except it’s a man-made concept, this killing for fun and I see no light at the end. Too many vested interests to keep the nastiness going.

  1. Reading the headline before clicking the link i thought the poem would be about sunshine, a cup of coffee, and a mood of silence. Think your paradise – indeed, it is – is a “hell of hunters” too. ;-(

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