A Hunters Prize Poem by Bob Gibson

Through the valley the Cessna flies
snow covered mountains, blue the skies
on a plateau of a thousand yards
we land in tussock and basalt shards

boil the billy, make a brew
set up camp, and make a stew
I'll take the valley you take the fringe
where trees and mountain streams impinge

through the bush and wetland floor
i see what I've been searching for!
a hoof print, fresh droppings on the ground
means a deer is still around

camouflaged deep in the bush
i suddenly get an adrenalin rush
not a hundred yards, a sika stag
my sights are raised, he's in the bag

the shot rings out, i see him start
i see my bullet pierce his heart
he falls to his knees, and now he's dead
forty kilo's dressed, he feels like lead

back at camp the wind has changed
our flight plans they are rearranged
we need a head wind to clear the trees
its from the west just a gentle breeze

all next day were out of luck
with the extra weight it seems were stuck
the wind shift came, its in our favor
tonight! venision will be the flavour


with apprehension the pilot, gave it the gun
over the trees and into the sun
the hard parts over, just the wife and a yarn
and its back to the sheep the cows and the farm