Deer Hunt Poem by Roy Ballard

In the distance dogs are baying.
Silver-masted birches, swaying,
wrap a double-beaded curtain
round a fawn that sniffs, uncertain,
scenting air like tainted water,
hidden by the silver daughter
of the woods, her tresses tossing.
Now the leading dogs are crossing
closer country, forest-gladed.
In the sunlight, filtered, shaded,
dapple-bright, the fawn is losing
shape and shadow; blurred, confusing,
random patterns dance, perplexing
where the dogs are vainly vexing.
Nosing, questing, canines whetted
sun-bedazzled, silhouetted,
on their trail of scent declining
hungry hunters, baulked, are whining,
baffled by the prey they're after,
mystified by whispered laughter
from the ever-restless shelter.
Now they're running, helter-skelter,
on a fresher track they're laying.
In the distance dogs are baying.