Hunt

There are fragile creatures
howling in the wood,
one crooked gate
and twenty eight steps
from my cherry coloured home.
I sing them songs,
contemplate the shape they make
in final light upon the Ash
and where they lay
their restless tails
upon their skulls
when they shut down.
I've heard they speak
in agile tongues
and race the ghosts
hell for leather,
I'm told I'll never see the soil
with hazel, holy veins and eyes
and if one day I'm born again
in the quiet of my Southern home
I'll go out running
beneath the moon
to turn out all my furless skin,
adorn pricked ears,
a set of whiskers
become the hunted
losing land,
knowing earthliness
as mother language
abandoned by predating
who continue gaining ground.