a strange thing.
From the ghost deer
on the bordering fields,
to the fire squirrels
in the strangling branches.
Then there are the boar.
The great sounders saunter through the trees,
rooting out roots and bulbs,
the treasure under the soil,
with tusk and hooves
while the white-striped piglets
huddle in the shadow
of a weary old elm.
Grand Old Boar of the Dean,
seen many a challenger approach,
and sent them all fleeing.
Many a hunter took a shot,
just one made a near-miss,
skimming the hairs of his greying mane.
Now he rests in spring shade,
dappled under the canopy,
tusks broken, eyes half-open.
His patrol of the wood will commence
for one last night
when the nightjar starts calling.
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