The Hunter

The Hunter.

I was a hunter long ago
back at the start of time,
then hunger made me fleet of foot
and silent was my stride.

I’d stalk the wooded hollows,
among the trees I’d hide,
I’d wait in dappled shadows,
bow ready at my side.

I learnt the way of those I’d kill,
of how they moved and why,
respected and admired them,
felt sorrow when they died.

But I’d a wife and family,
was mindful of their needs,
I’d kill enough to keep them fed,
I never killed for greed.

Each shot was measured carefully,
I tried to limit pain,
I’d loose my arrows straight and true,
was thankful for my gain.

No longer do I have the need
to kill to keep us fed,
the supermarket shelves are full
of meat that’s all blood red.

But blood is still on someone’s hands,
though we don’t have to see
the herds of what was once my prey
disposed of humanely.

No thought is given anymore
to that once proud, wild beast,
that soon will be the centrepiece
of another daily feast.

I can’t help wondering sometimes
as I carve a joint of meat,
we rarely have to worry now
for us this life is sweet.

And in this land of plenty
where I’m told we’re all obese,
would we all be more healthy
if such death we had to see?

Would we eat only what we need,
remembering what we know?
That man, for all his progress
was a hunter long ago.

Tags: Countryside, Creative writing, Odd Odes, Poems, Poetry, Poetry Blog, The Hunter, Writing