The Hunting of an Irish Hare

The Hunting of an Irish Hare.


As the law demands, she is released,
Set free as wildfire upon the wind,
Leaping forth as a flicker of flame,
From a cell of willow, the does bane,
Onto that field where only war awaits,
And the dogs that will decide her fate,
Her bones so brittle betwixt their bites,
As sleek, she slips their endless traps,
With sudden witcheries of motion,
Yet but a whisker away from death,
In his grim guise of coursing hounds,
Breath to breath, they break and turn,
Running her to ground, ravening for a kill.




Every snap of a jaw, howl and growl,
Erupts the cheering, clapping crowd,
Whisky warmed on a cold Galway morn,
For a winners purse on the turn of a paw,
Then with lungs afire, she explodes,
Turning to the west, lightning swift
With twists to trick their trips and kills,
She spurts the soil, jinking hard,
Showing her heels to the hounds,
Who are forced finally to relent,
To bow their heads, and tired pant,
Beaten, and all their passions spent,
As with a final backward mocking glance,
She vanishes forever into the high dry grass.