poetry@cheviotwalks

 

 

 

 

 

 

HEDGEHOPE HILL FROM HARTSIDE:

THE HUNT

 

1.

Late February,

fields and fell

white with hoar.

 

Hartside throbs.

The heartbeat

of the hunt.

Dressed to kill.

 

The Master calls,

clarion clear.

Hounds to heel.

The swell of blood.

 

Ready for the gallop,

horses steam.

 

The piercing horn,

sharp as a scythe.

The chase is on.

 

2.

Hedgehope seeks

no such sacrifice,

no bloodstained earth.

Sings a sweeter song,

high majestic hill.

 

3.

February leaves a stain,

feels the ache of death

drain through the valley.

 

 

RETURN TO POETRY INDEX