Red Hares
When I think of the hare
some raggedy, angular grace
races through my mind.
It comes unlooked for
when chatting of nothing,
rounding an August cornfield hedge,
up and away across sharp stubble,
square to the ground in an upright scurry,
arcing its route to distant shadows.
And it may be years
before I see one again,
coming to us down a lane,
picking a way before slowed traffic,
high banks lowering on either side.
It stops and then comes on again,
a remembered wilderness in its eye,
bringing back the hares of childhood
under pylons, fizzing cables.
Before sun sank and ghosted the field,
we squinted to catch a final glimpse,
their run over hummocks of fiery light.