The hare

A quadrille for dverse.

The hare

At the meadow’s edge I saw, where
the trees make shadows green,
pressed in the grass a form, hare
left showed where he had been.

The morning quiet’s broken,
by gunshot, eager sounds
of hunters’ sharp words spoken
and the belling of their hounds.

and the whole poem.

The hare

At the meadow’s edge I saw, where
the trees make shadows green,
pressed in the grass a form, hare
left showed where he had been.

The morning quiet’s broken,
by gunshot, eager sounds
of hunters’ sharp words spoken
and the belling of their hounds.

Are they looking for the wild thing
that rested by the hedge,
where the blackbirds and the thrush sing,
and the breeze sighs in the sedge?

Will they take the deer path, follow
tracks lost in the tangled trees,
or will they find the grassy hollow
where my hare rests? Hide him, please!

I hear the hounds’ wild crying,
voices urging, find the prey,
a russet flash, hooves flying,
of the deer that got away.

When silence falls, jay keeping
watch calls out in thankful praise;
somewhere a hare is sleeping
beneath the Good Ones’ watchful gaze.