STAG

‘Send me a cool rut-time, Jove, or who can blame me to piss my tallow?’
The Merry Wives of Windsor

Staggering home in the dawn, mere men rattling their chains, blasted askew, links in the family tree riven by lightning, branches severed, their antler crowns suffering the mockery accorded to cuckolds.

Woden, Windsor and the Wild Hunt.
Herne, Horn and Heron. Hounds.
Tally ho
hellwain
Grimnir, wolves, pitch of night, chains, ravens,
creaking wagons, midwinter, storms, shrieking,
shouting, baying, yelping, barking, bells ringing
swords clashing, neighing, stamping, wind blast
drunkards, rowdies, ballad mongers, cheats
jangling, clanking
deformed deer heads, faces in their chests, headless
maimed, entrails spilling, luminous, fiery,
howls of pain, cawk, cawk, breathing flames
saddles stuck with red hot nails
rascals, busybodies, pranksters, bounders



A rag bag army raving and howling, black horses pounding, all that corny horny carny hieronymous hell stuff—the hunt. And aloof, elegant and most intelligent—the white hart. It was in Windsor Forest—a dawn drive, down a little dip and up a rise, mist still lingering and, in the middle of the road, stock still a white stag. He turns to look at us in our metal box, then walks off into the fog. You don’t forget things like that.

<<