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