The Huntress stands to perfect form;
Silken coat, the silent storm-
The Lapin moves as swift as sight-
Whitened fur with furry fright-
A breath of thunder, fierce and long;
Claws against her trembled throng;
The Lapin stops with ears that see,
For He portends no meal to be-
The Huntress stalks with eyes that hear,
And rows of death invoking fear--
The Huntress reels the Lapin flees;
Two thunderbolts between the trees-
The oldest game now in play;
The swiftest live to rule the day...
DW
Author notes
This came to me after absorbing Tennysons's "The Eagle".
Any comments always welcome
Comments
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Wow, this is an awesome poem of the life hunt. Being chased by a huntress, be you an animal or human... we are all being chased by time and torment. Only way to make it thru it all is to have someone slower that gets struck before you. Well written
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