The Hunt

 by Brett Rutherford

     after Callimachus, Epigram 33

Vain are the ways of venery.
The hunt, I mean to say.
The sportsman scales hills,
friend Epicydes, in search
of what is hidden there.

Hare in the snow,
     the track of roe,
the burrowing fox.
The colder it gets,
     the more he enjoys it,
the rarer the catch
     the better.

Yet should he chance
     upon an arrow-
     wounded beast or boar,
felled by another’s darts,
     he will not touch it.

The hunt I know,
     the other venery,
takes place
in street and alley,
strolls in the park at night,
or anywhere at all.

My arrow, the random glance
     bold and in full daylight
can light upon one beauty
     amid a herd of his fellows —

Oh, to pursue what flees
     is best for me,
while what accosts me,
      offering,
I scorn to touch.