hunting dogs

The wind hushes through
the tall grass and dry reeds
of the frozen marshland.

My father and I walk
along tire-worn furrows
that the dogs ignore.

We pass under towers
thundering to feed
our electric hunger.

The sun hovers low
over the horizon’s
ridge of trees.

We trace the woods
until the dogs dart in
on the ghost-trail of deer.

The woods are splashed
golden Lothlorien
untouched by winter.

We follow the remains
of a stone farmer’s wall
and rotting fences.

The earth is muddy
but the cold air still
makes my cheeks sting.

© christine DINGLEY 2011

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