Lurking in the shadows of a moonlit country lane,
A wily old fox is on the hunt again.
Searching and sniffing the scent of its prey,
It must make its kill, before the break of day.
The hedgerows and copses are no place to hide,
Reynard can smell you and time is on his side.
The leaves they rustle as he stalks the forest floor,
The wind bends the branches, and twigs creak like a door.
The hunted gets nervous, paralysed by fright,
The hunter gets closer, his target in sight.
Creeping and crawling, the closer he gets,
Its keeping downwind, as the nervous prey frets.
The prey turns round and sees the hunting fox,
It then takes flight, running scared through the copse.
Our hunter takes chase, focused on that white tail,
There is nowhere to hide, our fox cannot fail.
With one big leap, its in for the kill,
But hunter and hunted then become still,
For out of the tree, an Eagle Owl dives,
And talons take hold, ending their lives.
Copyright © Richard Hamilton-Veal. 14th March 2010.
Night Life in the forest.
Its not all what it seems, as danger lurks everywhere.