[Trevor Conway]

Crack!

A quick bow to battle,
antlers engaged:
twisting,
               pushing,
turning,
               a shift
of sick desire to prove his strength
to other males
and bright-eyed does
wondering if he’ll still be their lover
when clash gives way to silence.

Awkward turns,
                                   churning hoofs,
skids and stumbles
                                   on fickle ground.
A wild lunge – his opponent jabs
with the will and strength to take them all
and leave him lonely,
pathetic,
wandering.

This thought
– a sore recollection –
drives his final surge like a wind:
tangle, unlock,
a desperate heave,
and the bold pretender flees.

Alone now, his tongue hangs loose,
tired as a dying fish.
He will assert his body, his right,
but for that he’ll wait for new vigour.

He hasn’t even caught his breath
when a dark figure appears:
like him,
thick of neck,
proud in his trot,
knowing all eyes are now on him.