The Hunt (revised, revisited, and remade)

The Hunt

Cricket song fills the wood,
Strange steps echo understood,
Feet tred as softly as they could,
To where the stone circle stood.

They charge with gleaming weapons raised,
To where the warm fire blazed,
Their eyes shining like the crazed,
The startled sprites stare amazed.

The fearsome hunters spears ready,
Huntresses with arrows steady,
Surrounds the dancing magic eddy,
But Sly Puck simply plays a medley.

The human hunters cause no harm,
As they fall under Puck’s charm,
The spirits dance on without alarm,
Human and woodling arm in arm.

But with Sirius lighting the summer sky,
The Queen feels the time draws nigh,
And calling order with a loud cry,
She speaks of things to come nearby.

“Mighty hunters of the human race,
Because tonight you have seen my face,
Upon you I grant my highest grace,
To take part in the glorious chase.

Awaken the white stag’s winter slumber,
Bring me the hide of pale white umber,
Then will you rise high in this number,
The greatest hunter of the summer.”

Then a white shape flies past,
The hunters respond to the last,
And pursue the stag, swift and fast,
Futile spears already cast.

Each hunter and huntress makes haste,
Their own path they each must face,
Hearts beating and sweat laced,
Seeking ever a trail or trace.

One hunter, strong and true,
Spots an antler the white clue,
Through dark glades and streams blue,
Like the stag, he is swift too.

Then as he, a dark glade nears,
The stag jumps and disappears,
But the hunter waits, until he hears,
The heart beating full of fears.

And parting the foliage he sees,
The white prize in mud to its knees,
And knowing death waits if it flees,
With large blue eyes it makes its pleas.

The hunter lowers his steady blade,
His resolution beginning to fade,
As the silent two breathes in the glade,
He realizes his decision is made.

He ropes the stag and draws it out,
And leads it back by the same route,
To where stones stand round about,
And is hailed with the victorious shout.

Crowned with oak and laurel wreath,
The man for what he had achieved,
Is lauded high his sword in sheath,
Upon a throne of stone and leaf.

The hunt ended, this glorious thing
So the woodlings all begin to sing
Their joyous cries and voices ring,
“All Hail this year’s Summer King!”


Okay, so the first one was bad... no it was horendous!!! It was a disaster of poetic proportions!!! So I tried to fix it. This one rhymes a bit better and tells the story too. I dunno, which do you guys prefer.