The Fugitive

A poem

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.


Copyright © 2019 Bridget Webber. All rights reserved