Lawrence Hall
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
The
Hunting Camp
He yaf nat of that text a pulled hen,
That seith that hunters ben nat hooly men
-Chaucer, Prologue, 177-178
Friday evening
The merry fellowship of the hunting
camp
In the golden time is one of autumn’s
joys
Unpacking by the light of a kerosene
lamp
Where men for a weekend are once
again boys
Saturday morning, I
Up before dawn, already the
coffee’s made
The ground seems harder than it
did last year
Is that poison ivy where my head
was laid?
Pour me a cuppa that caffeinated
cheer!
Saturday morning, II
With my ancient Enfield I walk
the trails
I really don’t want to see Bambi
today
Along the creek as the mist
unveils
Folk memories and idylls are my
only prey
Saturday afternoon
I rest in the shade of the
forest eaves
Quite at peace, here where I want
to be
The smoke from my pipe drifts
through the leaves
I hope the First Peoples’ spirits
will sit with me
Saturday night
No one got a deer today – that’s
good hearing
I think we were all okay with
that
Cards and jokes and talk in our
little clearing
The occasional flythrough by a
Mexican bat
Sunday morning
As it was in the beginning of
boyhood
As it is now that we are old men
Our world must end, but for others
great good
In the sacred woods of the Lord
- amen
Note:
My
concept of hunting is a stroll through the woods with my 1905 Lee-Enfield.
I have never shot a
deer.
I
have never shot at a deer.
I
will never shoot at a deer.
If
God had meant me to eat a deer He wouldn't have invented Denny's.
Feral
hogs are a different matter.
Camping
with the guys and sitting around the fire with pipes and cigars and tin cups of
Jack Daniel's (AFTER EVERY FIREARM HAS BEEN CLEANED AND STOWED AWAY) and
swapping old stories and bad jokes - that's one of the best things in life.
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