The Hunter

The vale, a mini grand canyon, most of
the time, cloaked in the opaque fog of
obscurity, was clear today. The floor of
the dale is flat and scattered with large
boulders, crippled bushes, weedy, slimy
plants and an imponderable, stillness that
follows sins of wilful nonappearance.

Was here, with my dog Stella, to look
for and hunt rabbits, by a boulder I saw
a rabbit bigger then a red fox, I shot it
in the head with my 22 calibre rifle;
still convulsing when I came up to it,
kicked it to death with the rifle butt and
saw it was not a gregarious mammal.

Hundreds of them, hairy monster rats
looking at me from every boulder and
holes in the ground. I moved backwards
didn’t dare turn my back, but they came
closer I panicked and fled; Stella stood
her ground defending me till I could get
up on the road of cowardice yet again.

I shot into the melee of rats till I had no
bullets left, but I could not save my dog;
fine rain a foul smelling miasma filled
the ravine packed with phobias, odium
and fear of the indefinite; one day I will
be back hunt and kill nightmares, clear
the valley and built a temple to purity.