Liam Acornley - Year 1, Hunter. Workshop Piece.

The air was crisp, the day tranquil
each passing moment was truly bliss.
Overhead, the birds to fly I will,
and I, alone, point them to the abyss.

The act deemed wrong by moral sagacity,
to cull such a gentle creature; a sin.
Yet, I wait, patiently, emotional volcanicity,
I spot my quarry, cock my gun, and grin.

A bloodied pinion, a splattered feather,
all that remains of the flock.
Far above, the now pink-clouded aether,
is silent, no wings, no song, no squawk.

My prey lies motionless, fallen to earth,
yet I dare not approach it yet.
I wait almost an epoch, sudden mirth;
I see the damned beast approach, I sweat.

Its yellow fangs, its sharpened claws;
stained red with the landscapes deep clay.
It approaches the bird, seemingly with awe,
but its insatiable hunger gives way!

As it devours my kill, I readjust my aim,
my eye keen, my finger itching, my lips dry.
This creature a crux, it’s death’ll bring fame,
yet my mind wanders rebus, it’ll not die.

Instead I allow it to feed, I allow it to pass.
Gutless coward my people will call me.
It walks away, its mane, lit like trass,
I alone, maintain clarity and alacrity.

I’ve taken too much from nature this day,
to take any more would be wrong.
Life is a cycle that more death would flay;
and so, I walk home, where I belong.