One of my favourite things is walking. I used to walk a lot at night, loving the darkness and the way the world changed in the fields and hedgrows. This was an encounter with a poacher. They were such silent and still men when they heard anyone coming, so they could frighten the wits out of you when you spotted them.
POACHER’S MOON
That night, when I was out,
Walking the frozen fields,
He was the only stranger,
The Poacher,
Standing still as a death stone
Under the oak tree,
Switching on his head lamp
Only when I was past.
Blinding me and the rabbit,
Blinding me and the hare.
And I wondered if this was the time
Me and the pheasant,
The deer and the rabbit,
The cunning old fox and the hare
Would all lie down together
In the white and frosted furrows,
To lie there for ever.
For I had seen the Poacher,
By dint of old and wicked country magic
Of Deadly Nightshade and of Henbane,
Leap into the sky above us.
His head lamp shining away
Every shadow that would save us.
Until I looked again and saw
The Poacher’s moon.
©2019 Gwen Grant
Poems by Gwen Grant 