A cat will play with a mouse and thrust,
Much to we humans disgust,
Nature red in tooth and claw
Into our face.
The hounds will chase
The fox, and it leaves me bereft
For it is we who take pleasure in the creature’s death.
It is a truth profound
That the cat and the hound
Can not be bad,
But sometimes I think,
That we humans are mad.
Passion
Ashen
As a cold winter’s day.
The hounds bray
And he will go hunting for the sly fox.
They will box
In the dim light of morn.
Fate wont bother to yawn
And there will be a draw
As before.
A lone wolf
At the edge of the pack
Feels no lack
Of comrades true
For through
The clouds his friend,the moon, breaks.
He howls and wwakes
The ancient fear
In those dwelling near.
The hunter his gun aims.
The wolf’s brains
Explode.
There is no need to reload.
Taking up the body of his friend
He glances at the clouds which portend
A storm.
The sky so dark and forlorn.
Alone
At home
He sits
And strips
The carcass bare.
The pack neither know nor care
About the hunter’s prey.
They will commune
With the moon
Another day.
It is too soon
For the moon
To Rise.
The prize
Is for the taking.
The wolf is not yet waking
But come the gloom
his thirst he will be slaking.
A fox he went a-hunting, a-hunting with a bear,
They tracked a huntsman down, they tracked him to his lair.
Said the huntsman to the animals, “Two against one simply isn’t fair. Give a man a sporting chance to escape from his lair”.
Said those two to the huntsman, “Sir we have no gun. Come out, we’ll give you a sporting chance, lets all have some fun”.
Through an open window the huntsman tried to run.
The animals followed in hot pursuit, then came the fun.
As a frightened deer
which fears to come near,
Like a young fawn
its sense of self barely formed.
A hunter yawns
“You will be mine before dawn”.
The man behind the screen watches his cold blue eyes intent, malevolent. He sees all, watches the mould slowly eating the walls, but who watches the watcher? Do men with emotionless faces mark his every move as the huntsman does the game,until, at last the rifle is raised and …
K Morris - Poet 