The Hunter

The Hunter

As the unwelcome frost sets,
and the world is lost amongst shrouds of white;

As the sun dips below the horizon,
and leaves one last portrayal of the day’s beauty;

As the dying day,
welcomes the unsolicited arrival of gloom;

As the moonlight,
strikes down with an ethereal glow;

Against the blue-black canvas,
are his little fiery dots
ablaze with the night’s dark fuel.

He stands tall, watchful;
his starry bow poised forever
for the burning-bright eye of The Bull.

The three embers burn in an untold succession,
the unseeable lines make his sword;
his ushering contrast of bright red and white;
mark his especial existence.

His stars are the same,
from years long gone
and would glint still and same
when you’d be long gone.

The Hunter whispers his story every night,
till the winter yields to the spring;
But his stars glimmer only for those
who witness this giant panorama,
for those who share their necks craned up
in the dark with me;
and for those who’d redefine their night
for their walks in the dark would never be the same.