Papa Poem by Robert Graves Jr

I read that he was sixty-two- so young!
I recall when I had first heard the news,
Long before my years touched his.
I had absolved an old man then,
Infirm, impotent, diminished in his craft.

Today I feel his fear,
See him slash through the savanna,
Praying for one potent shot, one more time
To crouch triumphant atop his prize.

On that day,
He chose his favorite shotgun,
Faced his fear.
At point-blank range,
With one clean shot,
He killed the beast.