It is winter, and the hunters
clad in camouflage and motley
linger in tavernas by the road
to warm their frozen limbs,
where chimneys emit incense-
wisps of olive-wood and almond smoke,
and from the juice of roasting flesh
rise sacrificial fumes.
It is winter, and the mountains
are besieged by bitter, sleety cold;
small, soft creatures of the forest
tremble at the strangers' tread;
the wild boar grows uneasy,
sensing imminent, remorseless lead,
bewildered that the stalkers
take such pleasure in his death...
It is winter, and the hunters
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2007
Свидетельство о публикации №107090900402
Свидетельство о публикации №107090900402
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