|ark and apple||
THE SILVER STAG
From Quarry, 2008
Like Macbeth or a farce, four of us
in ‘ real-tree’ jackets, caps down
deuking from hillock to hillock.
The deer winded us on a Westerly and bolted
towards the next estate hours since.
We scavenge golden plover ghost-whistles,
a sea-eagle spanning; I think ‘bath-spider’.
The wind catches the keeper’s ‘… looking forward …’
‘50 in the hollow’ radios George, from Lake Con.
We’re on our stomachs. Ed and I lag,
make small-talk. I ask his sir-name.
We study droplets. Long for gun-shot. Sleet mists
the target. Finally the stag-thud. Mike’s first.
And how alive he looks. His long lashes.
His male smell. His mouthful of grass.
His portioned heart. Our four-fold need.
- Dawn Wood