The Autumn Hunt Poem by Sergey Dobrenkov

The sky, grown heavy, stoops too near the land;
The air is hollow; silence has its say;
A tousled carpet of fall'n leaves, wind-fann'd,
Exudes a smell of spice and tart decay.

The trees have spent already half their gold;
Their feast of colours is ordain'd to die;
The grass wakes hoary: one night makes it old;
The leaves that stay hang hush'd, and ask not why.

Amid the year's last warmth, with eager flame,
The powder dry, the leaden die is cast;
The steeds stand girt; the paired hounds strain for game;
And fresh relays shall follow, close and fast.

Far off, the frost-hard earth begins to drum;
A single hound-cry rises, thin and straight;
Then, flush'd and loud, the riders crest and come;
And in the thicket something stops to wait.

The steeds are pamper'd, curried till they shine;
The hounds give tongue; the riders trade a boast;
Bravado, in disport, and warm with wine,
Guffaws; the hollow air returns their ghost.

The hunting-horns sound brazen, tree to tree;
Their notes are flung to meet the stooping skies;
My love, preserve thyself! Canst thou foresee?
I ask — and in the thicket gleam her eyes.

As though she heard, she lifts her head, stands still;
Alarm is in her eyes, and doom foreknown;
And through that darkness fiercely glows one will
To fight for life, since breath is God's alone.

The hind bolts, vaults, and swerves; the hounds, abreast,
Close on her heels; the steeds gain pace on pace;
She doubles, leaps, and tears the brake, hard-pressed;
The riders whoop, and wheel, and cut, and chase.

The autumn air, as if in pity, grey,
Thickens to mist, to blot her trail from view;
But damp holds scent, and, holding, doth betray;
The hounds, who read by nostril, read it through.

She smokes like smould'ring coals; her strength is spent;
At bay, alone, she stands amid their shout;
The ring of riders closes, as was meant;
Alas, now Hope, who stays the last, goes out.

Her soul doth quake within her blood with dread;
The final moments, thick to touch, run slow
And close for ever all the path ahead.
In frosty air her breath doth come and go…
She gazeth on Death's face with eyes aghast,
Yet nobly bears her to the very last...

Her lifeless head lies on the frozen ground,
Where downy hoar-frost furs the withered grass;
Unmelting crystals have her lashes crown'd;
To melt them, from her lips no breath will pass.

Beside her lie ten leaves of deepest red,
The one bright thing the dying year has shed;
In hollow echo, far away, now fade
The sounds of the receding cavalcade.

Within her pupils, held as ne'er before,
The stooping sky lies upturn'd: depth for height;
And yet, when Love fell mute from wounds she bore,
What grew impossible is turn'd to Light.


© Sergey Dobrenkov, 2026