Safari (Poetry)

Old Age is the white hunter
skulking in the brush
biding time — observing
I was agile once

many moons ago I
could still elude him —
sprint away — run well
that spring-heeled rush

when muscle was reliable enough
and bone didn’t let me down...
Now we play a slower
more considered game

of cat and mouse — all
strategy and stealth —
I creep about knowing
that he waits

around each corner
keen to pounce
counting every cautious
breath I take.

So far I’ve been lucky —
not much sign of damage —
though he’s winged me
with a shot

peppered in my direction
I carry the odd scar —
trace the seasons scored
across tired skin —

anticipate a less-kind reckoning
when I stumble on the trap he’s left
my limbs are sure to
fail me at the last

when that cave mouth takes me
into yawning dark —
sense the whole world shudder
to a sudden close

this life but a thin memory —
then I’ll be just another trophy head
nailed nerveless — hung glassy-eyed
aloft on some grim wall.