Foxhunt

Dog on a tail -
a glowing comet
that flows over hills and
whips round trees,
bounds through grasses,
do-as-you-please!

That was you, before the hunt.
Like a flame you were, bright-hearted,
laughing round your lolling tongue,
while on your rump a red-gold banner
waved in gay insouciant manner.

Then the concerted baying started:
the huntsman's hounds all sniffed the ground,
while on his mount the Master posed,
in fitted coat and boots that gleamed.
The riders on their well-bred hunters
all betrayed their social polish,
all displayed their silver spoons
and no-one saw a hint of tarnish.

A comet flows between the trees,
and leaps the gully,
and rounds the rocks
and bounds to where its safety lies;
it's do-as-you-must,
not do-as-you-please
for a red-gold fox with the pack
at its heels.

The fox today will cheat the hounds -
deny the elevated gentry,
those brass-horn-blowing, cheeks-a-glowing,
aristocrats whose blue blood craved
a splash of red.

Here's the fern and soft dark earth!
Go to ground beleaguered warrior
bury your burnished hide and rest.

Lie low Reynard and watch them go
tally ho, all breathing hard,
back to the yard to tell the tale
of the way a fox outran the pack,
but they'll be back
for the hunt's the thing
it's the only thing.

So fox you live another day,
till a future hunt
when the redcoats play.