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The Deer
by
Neil Bridgens
In camouflage the huntsman waits
his pouch as red as ink,
he's killed a hundred deer before
who wandered along this stream to drink.
No sky he sees, his pallet dry
no hesitation feels he,
the deer with silent feet draws near
no muzzle tip sees he.
This night is silent as a mole
the knuckle turns to white,
the deer moves not an inch each way
he's caught between the sight
no sound is heard after the fall
the skull remains the same,
a two inch bullet hole
is lodged within the brain.
By fireside the huntsman sleeps
a changing of the tide,
the deer with silent thirst
no more shall cross the river side.
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