Hares

Their black dipped ears

flinched and twisted, tuned

to curse and threat,

still we were seized

by these frantic wishes of hares -

their twilight trysts and lunar violence 

- though I have never coveted 

this kind of madness.

There was no need for mystics

when spring was over,

no enquiry to be made 

of purple entrails.

Love is its own insanity;

ours heralded jealous rituals

and embittered contests, 

we, boxers bloodied in the ring

until we were just secrets

of the field and heather.

And hopeless then,

we became dusk dwellers

who awaited the arrival of stars

as though they might deign

to share their brightness.

 
Image from pixabay.