Thomas Heard Poetry (Midnight Hunt)

The Hunt

Hunters stalk throughout the night
Music drawn within their wake
As they aim to overtake
Quarry pale, as cool moonlight.

Draw down they, their bows of horn
Arrows spit with piecing cry-
Yet unstruck, rebounding, spry
Dashes she, into gray morn.

Hounds release with fearsome bay
Falcons cut through air with ease
Eager they, to hunters please
‘Masters, come!’ they seem to say.

Cornered now, with shaking breath
Midnight’s chase comes to a close
Arrows fly from hunters bows
Piercing cry, and quarry’s death.

Written with Expression x3
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