Tuesday, 8 September 2015

Midwife of the Savannah Lane, Another Story

On the burning ground, I stand in need of a personal space,
And I crouch to eye my prey in hazed air with light fumes.
He grazes gently the newly born grass, I see in him my food.
I get a closer sight on him, his antlers sharp and shiny,
He could kill me with those, but he lacks, completely,
The knowledge of his strength, which is my strength,
He notices the black stripes on brown fur, and I chase,
Jumping at good height, he paces his speed and escapes.
I miss my shot today also – my cubs will have to starve again,
I was mistaken – my prey was not a complete fool, for –
He exactly knew where to pool in all his vigour, clever one,
And he won, while I retired to the dense marshy land defeated.


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