The Fox Hunt Poem by Steve Howard

What beating heart neath heavens deep,
could neither mourn nor open weep?
The baying hound, the braying horn,
now into a life a terror is born.
The thunder of horses, O pitiless sound,
God hears his last cry, as ol Reynard goes down.
Thoughtless and callous the ways of a man.
How shall he be judged, with judgement at hand?
Foxes and huntsmen, blood and distain.
A soul is a soul, to differ only in name.