Silent shoosh of grass all tan and
Green and slender wythes
Of black and brown against sleek
Black and orange all vertical and stuff.
Slo-so-slo, the eye upon the prize
And brother tan upon the shorter
Grass, Savannah-land, moves
Slo-so-slo ‘til churning speed and heat.
Fast-so-fast, the eye upon the prize
Dropping from the sky, talons
Sharp-so-sharp to pierce and then
To meet within the beating heart.
Silent, loping run, tongues lolling
Each takes a turn and runs at speed
Canines cutting… panicking, the prey
Runs through the snow they run upon.
Scything through the standing stalks
Of gunners, black cowl pulled low
Over white of bone… a walk at leisure
Amongst the boys who would be men.
First prey, then predator, later both
At once, he preys upon all things, his
Own as easily as upon the others. The
Predator who grieves is on the hunt.
R C Larlham
Copyright 2014… All rights to Author