The Stag

for Joe . . . from a cornfield just at the edge of my woods

 

 

 

Two times now I have seen him

As I walked along where a field

Is bounded nearby by old growth

Of maple, oak and scrubby shrubs.

 

Six-points, cropping corn stubble

Where the early morning light leans

And he leans and hobbles, dragging

His lame left rear leg behind him

 

Like a hawk with a broken wing; 

Even his shadow a crippled thing.

I wish for him a long summer . . .

Come October his instinct will run

 

From a man who waits in the trees

But his body will stumble and fall

From the arrow deep in his chest,

His spirit going on into the woods.

 

 

 

 





Poetry by countryfog
Read 636 times
Written on 2015-04-24 at 18:05

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Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
This very good, Fog. It tells a poignant story without becoming sappy.
2015-04-27


Jamsbo Rockda The PoetBay support member heart!
How beautiful but sad. It is always the weak that become prey. That unfortunately is natures way. Thank you for this.
2015-04-25


josephus The PoetBay support member heart!
This beautiful reflective poem is allegorical in many ways. Most of us here are that six pointer, closer to the end than the beginning. We all have the constraints of his leg. He ends fittingly; a natural extension of his life.

I am an archer but gave up hunting years ago. I still target shoot with a longbow and a recurve. The discipline of the exercise is restful.

May all our spirits be released free to roam our own woods and fields as he will.
2015-04-24


jim The PoetBay support member heart!
Your reference to R. J. takes me back. We've been at it, this poetry game, for a long time.

I especially appreciate the last five lines of this poem, from experience.
2015-04-24