The Fugitive

A poem

Source

That bull-calf, escapee,
rambler.
Hotfoot, in
fields of dusky yellow wheat;
lost.
First light, the dazed farmer was out, on
soft mud.
Plodding, with
bloodshot eyes and heavy groans;
the chafe of it.
And the whelp, scampish,
ran rings.
Sprightly, flew
as nostril steam flared into dawn.
Thumping the ground
black boots bellowed, rough,
grit-clod.
Hulking, and
sorrowed at the brazen beast;
frayed.
But then, the brusk
stripling slackened, till
reigned in, and the thrill
dampened as man and tyke
toiled home.
Heaving, bone-tired.