The hunter stands at midnight, upon divided lands,

And only the trees, and meadows breeze, do linger where he stands.

The night lies drawn in darkness, no light does yonder sweep,

As still he stands, with bow in hand, with mind of life to reap.

How patient is the owl, which watches keen with eye,

And makes no sound, small or profound, with stealth he does defy.

Alone atop his spire, he grows the more complaint,

For in the gloom, a half crest moon does more the picture paint.

The hunter clutches tightly, the ancient bow in hand,

Then takes great aim, with careful restrain, the point where it must land.

What scornful flight did follow, the shaft so terrible and hollow?

As forth it spent, with terror content and in the darkness swallowed.

How strange the night did trick him, and laughs with rustling leaves,

For the light half flung, with moonlight sun, shows naught but darkened eaves.

He hides back in his borrow, of leafs and twigs and sorrows,

What are these whims that haunt him grim, and in the darkness follow?

The lands he treads are broken, a token only spoken,

For in divide, are cursed by tides, of death and evil woken.

Long were the wars well fought, with honesty of sought,

To each a man, did glory stand, and chivalry not bought.

The owl sits more impassive, and pierces the night as if,

The night were day, his eyes display, the ancient hound mastiff.

He smells the breeze, this hound with ease, and points into the dark,

And with great haste, he growls distaste and beckons forth with bark.

This hound as black as night, strains forth with thought of fight,

And with great pleasure, he seeks his treasure, with malicious form of rite.

Too late, too late, all too late, the hunter flings with ease,

And with his bow, the arrows flow, to where he whisks them please.

No more the hound did stand his ground, but deathly silent lay,

No bark, no gasp, no last remark, as lifeless now did splay.

Howls of rage did fill the stage, of this ancient wooded realm,

And quick with lights, of torches bright, played shadows on the elms.

The owl above now watches on, with eyes a more the glow,

For in the scene, life lingers lean, as death must surely blow.

The hunter agile as a mouse, does dart from tree to tree,

And with his bow, in fire’s glow, begins his deathly spree.

The woods begin to grow with life, so merciless and cunning,

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And in the noise and great discord, none then see him running.

Men are called to rally, where once they lay in sleep,

And from their slumber, they rise in number, like aimless driven sheep.

Quick of foot and keen of eye, the hunter finds his house,

The open trees and meadow breeze, now hide this little mouse.

The owl now takes position upon some other perch,

For in the din, none notice him, as in the woods they search.

He fluffs his many feathers, against the damp he feels,

As down below, the sounds do grow, as hounds begin their peel.

He watches as the hunter, dances down a track,

In wondrous speed, none can impede, yet still, he does not look back.

Now the chase in earnest, propels all in haste,

As to and fro, each has their goal, and neither time to waste.

The owl stretches talons sharp, one before the other,

And in the half cast moon of night, he calls out to his brother.

The breeze so soft and full of life, now turns into a gale,

As all below in heated rage, peer to the heavens pale.

‘Who then comes to my woods,’ thunderous loud does sweep,

‘Who then roams, who then seeks, who now reaps a soul to keep.’

And then the winds enchanted, that hushed the mighty din,

Now through the leaves and branches whisper, of this ancient sin.

‘Brother ‘tis the creature man, that none can ever placate,’

‘Brother ‘tis the beast in him, that screams now of his hate.’

‘Man most evil and vilest dote, has in blood red written wrote,’

‘That where he treads all life has smote, and of these deeds does well to gloat.’

Forlornly sits the owl now, without mind’s appease,

As no more does the breeze assail, or his words to please.

Then amid a clearing, once all cast, in gloom,

The owl sits before the sun, before the mighty moon.

His silhouette now blazes down, like shadows in the noon,

As one below now takes his aim, to strike with arrow’s doom.

Quickly flew the arrow, straight and deadly true,

But quicker was the ancient tree, that all did quick construe.

The shaft did land, loud and sharp, but not in flesh and bone,

Rather like the axe man’s swing, though duller in its tone.

Now all stood frozen watching, in fear and stupor’s dread,

At he, who first plucked his bow, fell silent cold and dead.

All towards the heavens, with skin a frightful prick,

Wondered how the tree could move, wondered at this trick.

There before the quarter moon, now in its zenith clung,

The arrow in the tree stood buried, just like a dead man hung.

And then the woods did still become, so deathly still and cold,

That mist began its eerie dance, to quietly unfold.

It lapped upon a mystic lake, that swirled like water’s flow,

Half hidden in the night’s abyss and moonlight cauldron’s glow.

Brilliant was the phantom white, yet did not burn or sear,

But with it came a thousand eyes, and foreboding they did peer.

And then a shout, brought all to rout, as all to the heavens did vie,

The owl aplomb his ancient spire, gave them the evil eye.

No more a wind, a breeze, a wisp, as all stood frozen still and stiff,

As if now upon Hades’ cliff, with the wailing sounds of the ancient mastiff.

With pounding sounds of beating hearts and lips too parched to cry,

The fox now saunters carefully, with malicious thoughts to try.

He hides well covered in the woods, as still as stone, he instinctly stood,

Amid these men, in mist his friend, and night times hunting hood.

Quickly runs he, in and out, without any thought of fear or doubt,

He bites upon the mastiff bitch and sends it into rout.

He moves from man to man, and though the fog now lowly stands,

It appears as if, a demon fish, swims beneath the moving sands.

Hither and dither, in and out, fear now swells all about,

As an army great, an army stout, flees before nocturnal doubt.

The morrow’s morn now breaks its banks, from whence it once not durst,

And flows unto the darkest wood, where men’s wide eyes now thurst.

The trees begin to walk like men and fling their branches wide,

As if to smite whom near them treads, or whom behind them hides.

Aghast the sun that to them brought, the first of light to dwell,

Behind the moon, did pass too soon and fade in night time’s swell.

And then with a lurch, the owl did perch upon some lower limb,

And scoffs at the sun, all been and done, that brought naught light but dim.

The owl upon his lower sill, now takes full measure of his will,

Of what to man seemed grand and vast, now fallen cold and still.

But one knave left, surmounts this cleft and raises his bow to the sky,

Without thought or whim, another strikes him, the hunter with the ravenous eye.

The war is done, no man has won, as all lay silent and still,

And yet in this void, the hunter is buoyed, yet falls to the ground fearsome ill.

The wind again whispers, to the owl and his sisters, his brother, his minions, their king,

In cinders’ light paling, grows the hunter more ailing, as low do his moans deeper ring.

‘Life does abate, from this man at death’s gate, though fearsome and true is his heart,’

‘My brother, my king, have pity within, and show not the blackness of art.’

‘Though all lie slew, under the phantom’s white moon, one left must bear its tale,’

‘Else man will plunder and tear all asunder, that which he never did fail.’

The owl did but grin, from thoughts deep within, and lessened the grip tightly held,

And as life again scurried back from whence it had hurried, the hunter no longer lay felled.

‘My brother, my minions, my many dominions,’ the owl from his perch thus spake,

‘If then for your pleasure, I grant you this measure, and hope then for your pity’s sake,’

‘The worm that now slithers, withers and dithers, grows fat at an envious state,’

‘The food that is waiting, grows evermore tasting, let this one not add to his plate.’

‘But the hunter is gamely, and I am more namely, let me thus speak more the plain,’

‘For what I have given, men have but striven, that now lie mortally slain.’

‘The hour is awoken, and in sign of my token, let all hear my verdict, my creed,’

‘For what has been struck, be it his or our luck, life’s ages, will naught on him seed.’

The wind then howled like dead men aloud as cries from wood folk did sweep,

From near and afar, all saw heaven’s star, around the hunter to creep,

‘By the leaves in the trees and the light in the moon,’

‘Undo what is done,’ did the wood howls swoon.

The hunter stands at midnight, upon divided lands,

And only the trees, and meadows breeze, do linger where he stands.

The night lies drawn in darkness, no light does yonder sweep,

As still he stands, with bow in hand, with mind of life to keep.