With footfalls soft as falling flakes of snow
the arctic fox hunts in the dying afterglow
She keeps stalking the winter landscape through the night
moving swiftly over ice like a shroud of deathly white
When she finally finds her prey, scent giving it away
she's ready to pounce, tail starting to sway
Moments later, in her muzzle it's trapped
with bloody streaks its life's traces are mapped
The huntress swiftly returns home to hide
as an ember in a hearth, she almost feels warm inside
She has never known better, always struggling to survive
but prowling through the afterglow, she couldn't feel more alive
YOU ARE READING
Old Words
PoetryA collection (and selection) of my old poetry. If you want to read some of my more recent work, check out The Magic Of Poetry, An Abundance Of Haiku or Bright.
