TROPHY

A reflection on the horror of trophy hunting

 

TROPHY

 

My blood pounds hammer-like within my head

and drips into the thirsty dust.

For a while I’ll rest my hooves of lead,

then run again as run I must.

 

I have stood beside cascading silver,

sharing icy streams with leaping salmon

moving ‘gainst the escalating river

to the shadowed pools where they would spawn.

 

Ten thousand suns in crashing, flaming wrecks,

shot down each one by stellar bullets,

splashing gore into the graveyard west

as headlong to the night each plummets.

 

A billion lunar spears of light

lancing through the leafy bower

impale the ground, itself as black as night,

and dapple it with golden shower.

 

So much already seen,

much more that’s still to come,

but now against my breast the green

has crimson turned, and I grow numb.

 

The proud and twisted horns atop my head

would toss once more in game rejection of my fate.

But lo, I fear my spirit has already fled

and lead torn heart just will not wait.

The coming night is endless, dark and deep.

I must lay down this great old head

and drift into the long deep sleep,

the waving grass my last, soft bed.

 

 

18 October 1967

Hyde Park