The Trapper

The Trapper


The Indian came through the trees,

His trusty bow in hand,

The arrows ready on his back

And on his head a band,

With one bright arrow quivering

Like some expectant ear

That scanned the undergrowth for prey

That would not disappear.

Another supper for the pot:

A pelt against the chill

Of winter winds around the bend

And harshness round the hill.

The Indian came through the trees.

He came without a sound.

With only movement of the mind

He passed across the ground.

But there is one thing you must know.

It must be understood.

The Indian was just a stump

In a Norwegian wood.


©Ruth Twyman Lockyer Ørje, Norway September 2013

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