A Hunters Coat. Poem by Ann Beard

l choose a hunters coat today
wear colours of the forest floor.
I clean my gun and pack a bag
with care I whet my butchers saw.

Sharp enough to cut through bone,
no harm a little blood and gore.

On tiptoe, not to wake within.
I wrap misgivings tight in greed.
With stealth befitting any mouse,
I leave to search for flesh to bleed.

To those who still sleep soundly
I am very strong indeed.

An unsuspecting woodland stag
turns his head, wide nostrils flare.
He twitches with the scent of killer,
roars a warning through the air.

I stand with rifle cocked, all ready
through the foliage, meet his stare.

Blue eyes threw sparks of sapphire,
both aim and bullet go astray.
The stag takes flight so gracefully
His beauty saved my soul today.

Back home I tell the meanest tale
Of size – the one that got away.

©Roan Apr.2009