The Hunter Poem by Michael Eyre

The Hunter treads the well worn trail,
His outline drawn in pale moonlight.
Pausing, jaw ajar, nostrils flared,
He stares into the crisp cold night.

An owl screech punctures the silence.
He crouches in his favoured place,
His expression inscrutable,
Patiently waiting for the chase.

Out of the black, a faint rustle,
His unwitting victim appears.
The Hunter readies his weapons
Keen senses straining as it nears.

Suddenly a dazzling light
Illuminates the fearsome scene.
A familiar voice calls out,
Offering up finer cuisine.

The blinking cat breaks its cover,
The victim escapes its grim fate.
Cat food is easier pickings,
Mouse hunting will just have to wait!