‘Tis luck ol’ fox ne’er learned to shoot
For bafflin’ want he willin’ fasts
When kills ‘em hens in clapped up coups
Uneaten, laid upon the grass.
Or lambs, from ewes he drags away
But only tastes a bloodied burst
When rippin’ throats: for nothin’ slays
A silence—fed by natural thirst.
Such fickle nature justice save?
Or Hodge who shoots undo the knave?
What subtle way the days have stewed.
When men unknowin’ absolutes
Alone their will must fall with two;
Eternal parachutes.
(To hide in death what pains a life
Or keep in sight, sum natural strife).
And floatin’ touch a solid ground
Beneath the winds and cuckoo clouds.
©2026 R.A.R. Knight
Author’s Note:
Hodge is an old word that means farmer.
Leave a Reply