The Wild Boar

There’s a strange shape at rest on the landscape.
With no clue as to friendship or foe.
A huge bulk of a beast in its torso.
We approach with great caution, wisely so.

He’s snoring away in his slumber.
His pot belly at the rise and then fall.
We tip toe past this most fearsome of warthogs.
Keeping quietly hidden and small.

Beyond we look nervously over shoulder.
To see if our progress wakes him from sleep.
And so start running away to the boundary.
When an abrupt snort comes from the deep.

For now he’s rolled over more active.
Alive at the prospect of lunch.
Of a human or two on the menu.
And what else could add to his brunch.

He paws at the ground with his trotters.
Gores down in the Earth with his tusk.
Sweat pours from his brow and his midriff.
A swine in his prime in full musk.

He meanders his way to the fence line.
A saunter becomes canter and then run.
Before a stall in momentum against stake post.
In his charge more sternness than fun.

He sniffs hard at the air of his quarry.
Stands rigid against territory wall.
No hint to his thoughts or his actions.
And whether flight is now needed or call.

And yet there in his strength is an offer.
To come closer and examine this kin.
To stand tall along with his power.
And share in his great presence and win.

For he has not come for the fighting.
Not least in the tradition of war.
Instead he his here to inspire poet.
To join forces with bard as wild boar.

By Simon Blackler
Copyright © Simon Blackler 2020

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