The Stag

Walking through Frith woods
crunching through scattered dead leaves,
a sudden whisper in the rusty blanket
and there he is, the colour of it,
his triangular face pointing at me.
I stop, a boot poised to step, and look.
A silent bridge is flung between our eyes.

At first it seems wariness tiptoes across to me.
Is he scared I might shoot him?
But darts of fascination cross the bridge to him.
Or, is that swords in his stare
challenging my audacity for trespassing
in this territory of which he is lord?
True, our eyes are locked as his antlers might be
in combat of the rut;
but admiration takes a trip across from me.

His radar scanner ears flick
and slug-black nostrils twitch
sifting the wind for danger.
His long neck is curved like a spinnaker;
head crowned with spires,
sprinkled with sunlight.

The oaks are more his domain than mine;
I belong in neat streets under lichen daubed tiles,
his roof is the sky with rafters of branches
with their fresh leaves of green.

We stand as quiet as the trees, waiting.
I do not think he is amused to find two feet
where four belong.
I gaze across the frozen space
corkscrewing my eyes into his brain
to fathom his thoughts, but all I get
is the reply of Chesterton's Donkey:
I am dumb, I keep my secret still.
Perhaps it's only my feelings that fly to his wild head.

My eyes turn back to the muddy path;
I look round again and he's away,
the tree trunks close their curtains
and he is gone like mist.

March/ August 2009