The Hide Poem by Barry Middleton

at the point of the hill the old deer slept
from there he could view the dying west

the cool of the evening was a blessing
that brought the safety of quiet rest

the woods fell silent except the call
he knew so well of the owl and the fox

and so he sighed and closed his eyes
before the crowing of the cocks

too soon the hunters would awaken
the clarion of hounds and horns

would split the peace of his quiet hill
as he crept away to the thicket thorns

there to browse the final berry
and wait again in the fretful shade

for night to come and return to home
the hill where all his dreams are made