Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                                     ­    The Hunting Camp

                            He yaf nat of that text a pulled hen,
                            That seith that hunters ben nat hooly men

                                          -Chaucer, Prologue, 177-178

Friday evening

The merry fellowship of the hunting camp
In the golden time is one of autumn’s joys
Unpacking by the light of a kerosene lamp
Where men for a weekend are once again boys

Saturday morning, I

Up before dawn, already the coffee’s made
The ground seems harder than it did last year
Is that poison ivy where my head was laid?
Pour me a cuppa that caffeinated cheer!

Saturday morning, II

With my ancient Enfield I walk the trails
I really don’t want to see Bambi today
Along the creek as the mist unveils
Folk memories and idylls are my only prey

Saturday afternoon

I rest in the shade of the forest eaves
Quite at peace, here where I want to be
The smoke from my pipe drifts through the leaves
I hope the First Peoples’ spirits will sit with me

Saturday night

No one got a deer today – that’s good hearing
I think we were all okay with that
Cards and jokes and talk in our little clearing
The occasional flythrough by a Mexican bat

Sunday morning

As it was in the beginning of boyhood
As it is now that we are old men
Our world must end, but for others great good
In the sacred woods of the Lord - amen