The Deer. Poem by Andrew David Hunt

The Deer
I
The heavy scent of pine, oak, birch and hyssop,
Spins like sacred secret garlands within the breeze.
It twists high and then low, among the boughs of trees
that stand by the damp and musky eternal bridal road,
That leads to the town of Cassis under a celeste sky.
Its here: with a new pondering of delicate deliberation,
I see her deftly pad through twilight's last embrace.
Her feet -penetrating- the rich, dark, deep-damp soil,
That is full of the heavy scent of a rising re-birth- -
where even time is held in her slight and rising girth.

II
Her scant, - - slender mottled and undulating flank,
Slowly starts to reflect and refract amid a golden hue;
As the straw coloured sun, encroaches from beyond.
The growing, glowing, summer shaded trees, are naught
For they interfere with this: her delicate point of view,
As its in their shade I see her panting breath is caught.
There is a pause for breath- - as she so shyly stares- -
Then she she’s off! lost in this forest of a dream!
Now an echo of a pause of a losing thought.
Her ghost limbs thrust down. Her muscles stretch.
She graces the air with such ease and pure desire.
To be lost perhaps now forever and perhaps nevermore
Amid the wild mans eyes and his nuggat thoughts.

(c) 2010 redrafted 2013