dream hunt

the hunter stalks the plain

I am trying to sleep

some days the chase yields only empty fruit

I turn over in my bed

where has the good game gone

I listen to the silence

the hunter eyes a barren waste

I plump my pillow

at last he sees a familiar shape

I try to lie still with eyes closed

there – his prey is waiting

I imagine the calmness of nothing

he creeps he leaps he captures

and drift a little way away

the hunter begins to dance

© Frank Prem, 2017

March 2017 Poem #18: now, is

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