In shadows, stealthily he creeps.
Falters as hunting owl shrieks.
Crouching behind moss-covered grave,
The cold night to his marrow seeps.
Scampering for his life to save.
Hunter hones his natural glaive.
Now three a.m. the clocks all tell,
Arising from behind a grave.
Fieldmouse frozen, by striking bell.
Owl swoops, hoots another death-knell.
The poacher’s eyes alight with greed,
This night’s labours have gone well.
Towards his bolt-hole with all speed.
But talons strike, meat is his need.
The man, this cruel death does not heed,
Viewers’ appetites he must feed.
NiC Roworth – August 4, 2021