The Dun Lord

He steps from the icy grip of Winter and into
the cool waters of Spring.
His hide is dusty
his flesh
lean
sparse from hunger.
Ribs protude from thinning brown fur
and his great head
with its warm dark eyes
is dropping, drooping and bald.

The skin is pierced!
Blessed bone protrudes;
the velvety white is sacred -
pure and soft as the petals his tired hooves softly crush.
Green erupts. He grows with the land
and as he eats his chest grows as bark creaks like yawning
his legs leap

further -
and the neck is proud. He takes from the forest
gives back his questing silky nose, his shed fur,
will give back his children. He borrows from the forest
his horns brush the trees in thankful greeting. He breathes
with the trees
his pelt shaggy with moss
his antlers strung with a coronation of flowers, a simple riot of reds
magenta and cerulean,
succulent virid leaf, tangling
against his unassuming duns, ochre-warm life. They lend him warmth, vivid
and they lend him colour. His strong legs, his wide brown eyes alive;
The forest has leant him life.

The Stag, proud crowned King, bounds in his waking domain.