March Hares

I met an old man in my wanderings,

with thin grey hair and pale aged eyes, 

who smiled at me as we passed

through the kissing gate at the end 

of the path down from the high town.

By his side a dog of indiscriminate 

parentage, brown inquisitive face, 

ragged ears, eyes as dark and deep

as waves which caress the old jetty.

His nose pushed into my hand, he

bestowed wet kisses on my fingers.

“Privileged creatures dogs -  further 

than a mere man would dare go

with a stranger.” his master said.

He blew me a kiss and went away 

whistling a sad haunting tune,

but his step was brisk and the set

of his head that of a happy man. 

On a bank at the edge of a field

newly greened beneath the wall 

of the old town, two hares boxed

on the March snow dusted turf.

They circled, hind legs erect, 

feet en demi point, long ears

akimbo, front legs curved high

into the sky, two peasant dancers 

in a dizzy rural pas de deux

whirling, bobbing, wheeling,  

then subdued he bowed to her,

and docile followed after her. 

I watched them, two brown

snowflakes, Eostre’s children

who melted away invisible 

among the old trees, their once

exuberant presence marked 

only by faint tracks in the snow. 

I stood at the open graveside

where the old man lay in his coffin,

his small brown dog beside me

long nose resting on brown paws.

‘Eternal rest grant unto him

Light perpetual shine upon him’

The dog, sighing, licked my hand. 

Together we walked the path 

down from the old high town,

past the old dark forest where

young leverets sleep and play

and white wood anemones bloom.

On to the beach amongst the

blue sea holly and grey leafed kale

are two new March Hares running

headlong into the new spring sun.

Brown Dog barks, and chases 

a flock of teetering sandpipers,

while I hold up my arms to

radiant Phoebus, dazzling symbol 

of Love and Light come again.

                                       Naomi