If I see the gazelle step lightly thru the high grass,
pause and turn to leap away, I tell the story first
by firelight while the haunches broil.
The sun, the water, the birds in the air,
Mountains to the side and clouds above;
I see only the black eyes of the gazelle in the high grass.
We go down into earth together and the drums echo in the cave.
Here by flame light I sketch my prey alongside the
bears and great cats in profile, one after the other.
Over there, the aurochs roar and the mammoths thunder – gone now.
Later, much later, I will face the lions and put arrow
to their breast. Then others will carve my bearded likeness
and the cats, sleeping in the garden or chased by chariot.
Across my muscled knees, the scratches record my glory,
my name and those of my defeated enemies cast down before me.
The hunter lays aside his atl-atl
and comes in from the sunlight,
comes in thru the French doors to sit
for his portrait on a hobby horse,
ruffles fall away from the sleeve where
he points his baton West.
We think we can smell blood on his hands.
April 11, 2021
reading “Ways of Seeing” by John Berger
