THE IMPRINT

by Robin Boothroyd

On my cycle home through Richmond Park
I saw a stag not standing, not kneeling,
but keeled over; muzzle, head and horn
resting on the early autumn grass.
How the soft blades meld with
his thick fur as he sleeps.

I imagine the imprint of his shape
in the twilight. The long shadows
cast by the horse chestnuts kink,
ever so slightly, when they meet
the edge of his ghostly silhouette.
By morning the grass has resprung.

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