- Gina Douthwaite
- Last Updated: 05 May 2010
dogs wag and scramble
in a clockwork frenzy,
rummage in a slung wigwam
of twig and branch
scenting rabbit,
fox and mouse.
In this fractured wood
where ripped roots
reach like snakes from the graves of trees,
two deer,
mottled by morning,
appear.
Their presence drifts on a wave of breeze . . .
dogs freeze.
Then dart!
Deer break,
crash through sapless scrub . . .
one,
with rider-less grace,
clears the hedge and is gone.
The other bounds, uncertainly . . .
then sets herself into the rising sun
its ray a pathway
pulling up the hill.
This way. This way.
Dogs chase.
Gain ground.
She turns
and black, in miniature,
heaves beneath the halo of the day.
One way remains to win this race -
with instinct sharpened from the wild
and gambling theirs is man-made blunt
she stands
to call
her hunters` bluff . . .
In one, four-legged-leap
she`s gone.