At The Hunting Lodge Poem by Gert Strydom

The hunter’s.308 Musgrave hunting rifle
lies next to him in pieces
in the faint light of the hunting lodge
where he is cleaning the weapon

and in the distance a jackal
is calling at dusk,
he notices a swarm of wild doves
landing in the marula tree.

When the parts of the weapon
is joined as it belongs,
he carefully puts the weapon away
before he walks out
joining his wife at the barbeque fire

and the smell of fried lamb chops
makes his stomach growl
while he takes a pair of frying tongs from her,
turning around strings of sausages

above them the stars in the night sky
are shot-gunned into the black,
there are hyenas attracted by the smell
of the frying meat

laughing behind some trees,
somewhere he hears a kudu snorting
and the moon hangs yellow-gold above them
while he stirs the porridge

in the black three-legged pot
and his wife can swear
that a leopard with glowing eyes
is peering at them.