Something was slain here: deep in childhood's forest
deserted by the prodigal, a token
lies in the fallen twigs, in vines or branches;
lies with the birds' bones, with the arrow broken.

Still here the hunter, wearily returning,
ploughs through the dead leaves, hoping to recapture
something long sought, something that reaching fingers
never completely held with fullest rapture.

Hunter and hunted, onward and then backward,
circuitous or straight, the man again here
tramples the virgin growth; he bends, he trembles
as she lifts one small bone of the bright thing slain here.