Colin F. Jones

IN THE SNOW

It’s too early for the scope to work.
It’s damp and misty like the distance,
Across the ‘Zastrugi’,
which monitors wind direction,
like waves on a sand dune.

So he waits…

When they come they move fast,
Sliding in white cloaks,
Across the cotton wool –
Easy targets with the scope.

His is a dark shape,
Melted with the snow,
At the butt of a tree.

Even silenced the concussion
disturbs the snow,
laden on leaves;
a sort of white confetti delighting
the still air.

They drop one at a time,
Without knowing why.
The Stag looks on from its dark spot,
Searching ears seeing nothing.

There is a slight odour
of gunpowder in the air.
Both the stag and the man,
Move away.
They will meet again,
At another time.