
I've been waiting for the black deer
all my life, hidden here in the dark,
corner of the wood.
I see glimpses of them, breaking cover,
swinging away
to erase themselves in the deep trees.
They are implicit there, and will move
only if I hold still.
Though in a dream I have
they stand so near I can feel them breathing.
Then, when I look down
I have disappeared.
Out at the wood's edge, the snorts
and coughs of the feeding herd.
A gust startles a lift of leaves, and they
scatter and bound like the far-off heads
of deer in the distance.
The wind drops and the trees are antlered.
~ Robin Robertson