Poem Hunter
AM (03/14/95 / England)


Thick calls
haunt the ghosting birch's
of the woods,
drunk on moon-shine,
sobered by sun-light....

Who are you?
She calls, her
pincher beak not
unlike deep sea creatures
never captured, never found.

She calls to the moon again-
Who are you?
No answer,
craters shift,

She saunters off, the
wind her guide,
feathers soundless,
and the leaves rustle.
She catch's her prey,
ask' Do you know?

Still no answer,
she pecks.

She staggers,
a lord caught
on mutton and wheat beer,
and fog swirls,
carching star-light in
the tip of
it's gossamer scarf,
like dust.

Dawn breaks,
and she schleps
back to the nest.

Still no

User Rating: 2,9 / 5 ( 11 votes ) 1

Comments (1)

Wonderful imagery. Chilling atmosphere. Good poem - enjoyed. HG: -) xx