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David H. W. Grubb

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Hares

You don’t witness this often, even if you do believe;
Jumper, Rascal, Dew-Flirt.
You see cows running before thunder
and catch frantic frogs unfurling spawn
and there were those days when field rabbits were
bloated and stranded in myxomatosis,
but this is rare;
Grass-Biter, Wood-Cat, the Wild One.

When you hear a badger scream it is like
an infant’s terror.  Fox smell reeks of
secrets, nettle, the centre of forests
and all this remains with you and is repeated
but hares come once or twice;
Lurker, the Sitter-Still, the Sudden Start,
even the Home-Late.

We witnessed this once, in a field back from
the coast, and later in Bedfordshire before the air disaster,
before the white woman floated up, before the May Queen
processed through floods and the rector ran off with someone.
Not madness, not boxing; a commotion beneath
the immense moon;  strutting, duelling, even a dance.

 

 

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