John McCullagh January 16, 2008
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The cool of the rushing mountain stream

Splashed in the face of the wounded stag

As he sank to his knees in the shadow cast

By the lonely mountain crag.

Far in the West the sun sank red

Rainbows gleamed in the whispering spray

The wind stirred the grass in the broken rocks

As the swift stag, dying lay.

 

High in the rocks of the mountain side

The watchful eagle screamed forlorn

And the harrier wheeled from the stony ground

At the sound of the hunter’s horn.

 

And sadness came to the joyful glen

Where leaves had soaked in the summer rain

As withered and curled they fell at eve

While the stream sang a sad refrain.

 

Hills quenched the fire in the burning west

Pebbles crunched at the hunter’s tread

A pale moon broke thro’ jostling clouds

The stag in his blood lay dead.

 

 

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