The Poacher
Soft as silk on water,
the moonlight drapes the land,
caressing undulations,
like trickling, shifting sand.
Dips and hollows like punctuation
or notes upon a stave,
stark trees on silvery land,
like words etched on a grave.
Scudding clouds add drama
to the hoot owls sad lament,
and pour their grief on everyone
until their tears are spent.
Murmuring wind on listless leaf
like stifled whispers in church,
Scurrying feet in thicket and copse,
nighttime’s furtive search.
Checking snares, resetting traps,
the poacher stalks the land,
a nightshift Squire of field and byre,
the tools of his trade in hand.
So he tramps the woodlands down
in God’s own general store,
at odds with gamekeepers far and wide,
to keep hunger from his door.
#newpoem #descriptive
