Sunday 6 June 2010

Memories of A Huntress

The rippling grass without a flaw,
The rain that tear drops never saw,
Yet who is this that rides beside,
The pack that scurries from her stride.

For those who see the hunt today,
There will be no chorus in the fray,
No dreams are needed when running wild,
The harvest reaper offers no smile.

The sky that blew a welcome breeze,
And sings a lark of subtle praise,
Her shadow tall beneath the trees,
And leaves a mark cross seasons’ page.

The tolling defences of the garden,
With pleasure and sorrow caught between,
Thoughts of youth free of overgrowth hardened,
For age on this brow is by no man seen.

The trumpets sound the sigh of morning,
The hooves are clashing without warning,
The dirt is tumbled with hounds’ bark breaking,
The half filled glass holds claret shaking.

No cadence for a march asunder,
The world is rife with predictable wonder,
But only for the house proud gentleman and lady,
They say they know her, but that’s as maybe.

For who but the Huntress knows her prey,
When others are basking in their lurid attainment,
Theirs the twilight whilst hers is day,
When to vulgar envy they find enslavement.

They see her on six legs a-leaping,
Though they are far away for now,
There is a secret she is keeping,
But where and when they can’t know how.

Hers the catch and they the caught,
Defining themselves by all they’re not,
Lacking the means to hunt the hunter,
As whispers scream a song of blunder.

She cares not for their trifle praise,
Their insincerity shan’t e’er amaze,
They cannot hope to feign her glory,
For they are the bookends of her story.

Her Annette so white—their hearts torched black,
Their cowardice grows as distant slips her back,
Into a wilderness of warmth she cavorts so gently
Her harvest, the liturgy of plenty.

As those in her wake stand only in memory,
Her triumphs linger and augment,
Her fortune the privilege of the free,
No price too high for honour spent.

No hill to climb o’er Elysian bend,
That taunts the lessons long ago learnt,
Love cannot be wasted nor o’er enemies sent,
Crossed bridges are best departed burnt.

They are gone and she’s tall still,
Every hunter’s burden is their own kill,
To keep their fellow riders lost at bay,
In a place where children and fools down lay.

She is the Huntress of gold that’s shown,
When glory is granted all her own,
The pack lie sleeping—all others vanquished,
In the forests where the fox has languished.

They do not dare to run the race,
For they cannot gaze upon such a face,
The Huntress of victory,
That only the killed are blessed to see.


  1. This comment has been removed by the author.

  2. Yes, I heard that on the news tonight. Quite awful.

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  4. Oh dear. I really feel such a cad for pointing this out : a poem with a spurious comma at the end of every line is so hard to make sense of. The poet follows a holy calling, for on him is imposed the duty of invoking the creative tool - language. It is the Word, the Logos, that creates.

    Breaking the rules of grammar (glamour) willy-nilly reduces the creative outpouring of the mind to chaos. And that is the very antithesis of poetry.

    It is very slightly better (tho' not satisfactory) to omit all punctuation rather than to use it devilishly.

    So there!

  5. Jamie, that's a technical point you will have to argue with Adam. :-)

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  9. Well, yes, Adam, but the punctuation of Wordsworth et al really does punctuate for a purpose. ;-)

    Now, we must clear Ana's decks (and yard arm).