He doesn’t know his belt’s gone out of style,
or that he needs a license,
that hunting has a season now.
He is still in the endless forests of his past,
the pine-rich darkness, the crush of snowdrops at his feet.
Does he feel eyes on him
as he searches the same ground each night,
his quarry always ahead?
Could he not know?
His dogs have sensed it,
Major and Minor, who follow him anyway,
hoping he will touch …