A father tells his young daughters
what a hare looks like;
and of his life- how his mother learnt
to warm the corn for the slow-laying hens in winter-
of the boy and the horse that he couldn’t lead towards the yard-
of shooting rabbits, snaring foxes- of the appearance of a hare.
They talk of how it differs,
they will know from his description.
Is it later, when they walk
around the foreign trees,
searching for the tapping, for a piebald wing?
He’s gone of course-
one daughter reads the words in wonder,
one rounds the corner of the wood, in pain-
the hare is waiting.