Ambition laid low by tired limbs
Resign for the day bound by fatigue
At a hunter's campsite.
Entrails of a kill by the side
Of the clear warm stream; the blood
Still reflected in the sanguine amphitheatre opposite.
Lack of progress, no, retreat
Finds consolation in the sparse
Green and yellow that defiantly
Sprouts in the grey — many
Hunters have lost their mark here
And found the loss bearable.
I too have relearned the pleasure
Of being able to accept a loss gracefully.
The eternal ones around me
Seem to change their demeanour
And urge me to learn
To live and find joy; I obey.