The Stag
A trail under the trees
near Loch Katrine
and all is silent, barring
a bird, a wind-sigh.
God's creation rises
in the form of a great stag
his magnificent branchy horns and head
alert under an oak-copse
as he steps into the sun
ten feet away from me
as though he were an oak-tree come to life.
No, do not turn and run.
A pagan revelation,
personification of beauty -
I need this vision. When it is my duty
to sketch him from memory,
or from tame, toned-down specimen,
I shall draw on this meeting.
I am with him in the wild.
1 comment:
Hello, thanksfor putting my poem by this picture.
I'm not Christian, but Thomas Bewick (who I was writing about ) was.
cheers
Sally Evans
Post a Comment