Ian Bowen


The Egg Hunter - Poem by Ian Bowen

When I was only
as high
as the small hedges
that divided farms,
I walked this land,
ragged as the wool
that hung
from razored thorns.
The sun burned red
as I feasted on berries,
quenched my excited thirst
from then crystal streams.

My knees, from play,
the colour
of odd-one-out sheep
and the green
of natures dyes.
My music,
the song
of thrush and lark;
who sang warnings to others,
to keep an eye peeled
for this hunter….

who carried no sack
or blew no horn


Comments about The Egg Hunter by Ian Bowen

  • Brian Jani (6/7/2014 5:55:00 AM)


    Nice theme i like it :) (Report) Reply

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  • Ramesh T A (2/9/2010 2:36:00 PM)


    Nostalgia in Nature gives fun wonderful! (Report) Reply

Read all 2 comments »



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Poem Submitted: Tuesday, February 9, 2010

Poem Edited: Tuesday, April 26, 2011


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