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Go on Mr. Moon, big round cheese,
soaring over these maturing fields,
soft as the breeze that blows you along,
easing your beam onto me.
I am a free citizen of this land,
my long johns and string vest
steam, delicately fanned
on the pulley by the paraffin heater's
head fogging fumes
next to hung game, fermenting still.
Beaded moisture clings to window frames,
behind threadbare curtains.
Room suffused with ethereal glow.
Soon I'll be asleep, rhythmically snoring
beneath clouds enclosing you in darkness.

19 Nov 05

Rated 9 (9.7) by 1 users.
Active (1): 9, 10
Inactive (2): 10

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A real back story in here and very elemental under all those portents and symbols - the poacher ruled by the power of the moon - double meanings aplenty - fine poem,
 — unknown

This is great.
 — Hear

i love your poem. it has a real landowner poacher sociological microcosm to it.
 — bettalpha

Dear Bettalpha

I'm so glad someone feels about it the way i do

Larry dead of night Lark
 — unknown

Thank you for you insightful comments which are much appreciated.

 — unknown

Dear Hear Glad you think so

 — larrylark

love this! all your poems are great!
 — Lulu

Dear Lulu

and your comments are great too

Larry chuffed Lark
 — larrylark

very clever, I'm left with my senses tingling...great poem.
 — jenakajoffer

Dear Jenakajoffer

Thanks again for taking the time and trouble to read.
 — larrylark

I'm listing this as one of my favorites but what am I missing? I don't read anything about poachers and landowners in this poem.

It's the way I feel after an evening hunt.
 — unknown

great poem.
 — listen