In Holton Wood the deer are in rut

           We see them slide between the trees

           But, catching our scent upon the breeze,

They move on before they cut

Across our path.  The stag alone

           Stands and turns to stare at us

           While his does, without fuss,

Melt into shadows and are gone.

Our walk is heralded by cock

           Pheasants, who flash across our way

           In frantic flappings as they spray

The woods with warnings of attack;

Starling, like the bay of hounds

           We passed a mile back in their pen

           Which suddenly we hear again

As they are fed and go to ground.

This poem is not very good

           But I was desperate to write

           Something after last week's sight

And thought that I never would!

Brian Hick 30.10.09

©copyright Sally Hick 26.10.22