The Enchanted Night.

[Ben Grader]

There is a ring around the moon;
the air is crisp, for there will be a frost.
My breath goes in little puffs of vapour
before me as I walk; trees lean across my way
thin branches cased with phantom leaves:
a bare suggestion of the flush of summer.

It is yet short of full-blown spring;
flowers, there are a few, hiding, covertly;
I can just see their shapes, along the path edge.
A barn owl, pale as a virgin’s ghost,
glides across the field before me,
noiselessly, swift death on silent wings.

I bless its passing on ahead; for it tells
there are no others near, this secret night.
There comes a thumping from the box
I carry, dangling from a shoulder strap.
My polecat ferret knows what we're about
and is impatient to get on with work.

'Tis not far now, only a few more yards
to where the rabbit burrows in the hedge
showed in the daylight, as I walked the path.
I marked the spot as being good for sport;
on such a perfect night, so light as this
a hunter's moon indeed: just as I need.

I peg the nets down, working silently;
the polecat in its box down by gate
is quiet now. It seems to sense the time is near.
Quickly, yet carefully, I take it from the box
and slip it past the net into the entry hole;
a muffled thumping tells me a rabbit caught his scent.

A scuffled rush and out into the purse comes one;
I grab it quick and break its neck, before its squeals
echo across the moonlit field, and make aware
the farmer's dog, a quarter mile away. Another rush
a second rabbit follows, polecat tight upon its neck;
this too I take, replace the nets, and start again.

Now I hear the distant barking of the dog;
I have been heard, and must away.
Next time I'll bring a friend to help me out
if I can find one who will take the risk.
I slip the polecat in my shirt; putting the nets
into the box, concealed in the hedge.

The rabbits go into the poachers pocket of my coat
no evidence outwardly, to show my nefarious ways.
I'll walk across the fields in innocence; a stroll
in glorious moonlit countryside. Then later
double back pick up my box and nets
and cease activity, on this enchanted night.


When I posted this on another poetry site it was suggested that I was glorying in the death of innocent creatures.
All that this is is an account of a nights foray to get a couple of rabbits for dinner in the days when a weeks money was around £8 and a weeks meat ration was about 1 shilling and sixpence.

[nannabug]

Glorying? I don't see it that way, Ben. Mankind has been hunters/gatherers probably since the dawn of time. But many people prefer their meat placed on a styrofoam tray and wrapped with cellophane. They prefer to let others do the 'unsavory' task of providing food for their table. The owl provided for itself, as did you.
This was an enjoyable read. Your telling of the tale is very descriptive and your heightened senses at the time are quite evident.

[Ben Grader]

Thanks for the comments Nannabug, I used to enjoy my little forays on a moonlit night. Unfortunately the childrens books telling them stories about 'Peter Rabbit' and so on and the Walt Disney cartoons putting human conceptions into animals minds have made the public semtimmental about things like that. I have not seen 'The Lion King' but I bet that the 'King' acted like a proud papa to the cubs. In the wild the male lions often kill the male cubs; this does not make a good film though does it?

[M. G. Wolf]

Did you post this on PoetsQuill, Ben? I had a rush of deja-vu when I read it.

:tracks:

(-GW)

[Ben Grader]

Yes indeed, it was posted on Quill. It was not there though that I was 'told off' about glorying in the death of rabbits.
What did you use as a penname on Quill?

[Barbriat]

Ben,

You told this tale so well, I could feel the frost. Wonderful to read.

In my area, most people hunt for rabbits, squirrel, turkey, deer - to fill their freezers for family meals.