of tall grasses, eyes an arrowslit,
sprawled limp as a rug in the noonday heat.
From your heaving flanks a tawny odour
as of azaleas half-masks the salt-rust smell
of fresh meat. No doubt you dream of kill
the hierarchies of the watering-hole,
green dampness of jungles. You doze there
like a cat cushioned on a favourite chair.
I feel an urge to stroke your plushy fur,
smooth the wrinkle that frowns between your eyes
which open now and lazily surmise
my scrutiny. You shift weight, yawn.
I glimpse a row of honed knives ready-drawn.