When I was only <br />as high <br />as the small hedges <br />that divided farms, <br />I walked this land, <br />ragged as the wool <br />that hung <br />from razored thorns. <br />The sun burned red <br />as I feasted on berries, <br />quenched my excited thirst <br />from then crystal streams. <br /> <br />My knees, from play, <br />the colour <br />of odd-one-out sheep <br />and the green <br />of natures dyes. <br />My music, <br />the song <br />of thrush and lark; <br />who sang warnings to others, <br />to keep an eye peeled <br />for this hunter…. <br /> <br />who carried no sack <br />or blew no horn<br /><br />Ian Bowen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-egg-hunter/
