The Stone Stag

The stag still stands
as sentinel to man's pride and vicious act.
Proud in his folly stone,
long outgrown the hounding of the pack.
With rump to pastures spread,
the lordly acres where he, winded, fled
and hid … false hope

When caught, they tore his throat!

Bled, broke and dead
no more he'll fear those coats of red
who stopped his prime,
then cruel cut and bore that noble head
to hang on line.

Their season's game (as fashion wills) played out:
as him, but mere' the whim of time.
Close shut in tombs not near' so great as this
triumphal arch he strut.

Well cut, a beast bared bold … in rut?