Main heading

Elizabeth Lloyd Mowll

Beating the Bounds

With bead-bright eye,
incisive beak and claws at the ready,
he beats the bounds of his wood
on brave wings,
keeping a buzzard-eye
on the flustered rooks below,
flapping in the hissing leaves of birch.

He ignores the lamb with her dam,
bleating for milk in the sappy meadow
and the crawking, brash pheasant;
turns a blind eye on the rabbit
loping to the safety of the undergrowth.

His laser eye fails to penetrate
deep down under roots of ancient trees
and pinpoint young badgers, curled,
sleeping in newly gathered bedding
of cool, fragrant bluebells.

He glides on quiet thermals,
patiently biding his time,
noting the old brown paths of centuries,
their leaf mould and bark compressed;
observes new channels,
old stagnant pools
and here and there,
new hunting grounds opening up
where decaying trees make way for new.

He listens to the music of winds,
senses softness in the air
and the time of plenty approaching.