White Hart

White Hart 5

Coursing through the moonlit forest,
On wind, in rain, through branch and bough,
Shadows, dark dread in light, pursued the hunt.
Seeking, wielding, clawing, snapping, grasping, gripping,
Given substance by the Dark,
Imaginations bone-bladed edges made real,
More so than any material thing,
Brought by mortal man
Into the realm of Dreams,
At heels of horse and hound.
The Hunt swept through the forest
On a crest of fear,
Their faces White,
Painted so but not by light,
Jaws set, beards flecked with frost,
Dusted so by Moons pale gift of ice,
In grim determination
The Hunters rode
As they had hundred nights before,
White Hart thundering hard and fast
Forever far before them,
But this night red eyes gleaming,
For predator tonight was prey.

© Greg Richards
A Poem from my Rhymer Chapbook
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