THE CHASE

I first heard the hunter's horn
on the day my father died.
I found mortality that morn
and saw the fate from which all hide.

Since then the hounds are often heard
each time another loved one leaves.
By now you'd think they'd be inured
to my scent wafting on the breeze.

And now approaching three score years
the crash of brush and running feet
are heard as hounds and hunter nears
'fore long the hunt will be complete.

But they aren't yet nipping at my heel.
I've still some tricks and a few years.
Though not dead yet I know the feel
as I race through remaining years.

When hunt is done, my bones at rest
near some stream beneath a poplar tree
where the winter sun sinks in the west
heed the wind and you'll hear me.