Too often roadkill or sprung space,
our deer survive and come back north
pressing themselves to the house for warmth.
They're close enough to show their lice
teeming through fur that looks combed.
They'll bolden soon and scruff our fence
with moult, a herd of hoist-bellies
up for scraps they lick from my palms
on the day you venture out again,
all bristle and stink, warming to spring
with skin that's slackened on grief.
Gods from off the mountain, you'll say
in your grandiose way and stoop
while I kiss you in firm belief.
Christy Ducker lives in Northumberland. Her pamphlet Armour (Smith/Doorstop, 2011) was a Poetry Book Society Choice. Her poetry commissions include residencies for Port of Tyne and English Heritage. She has received the Andrew Waterhouse Prize, and is currently writing a collection of poems about Grace Darling, as part of her PhD research at Newcastle University.
Follow the link for a list of other Poems of the Month.
Deer © 2012 Christy Ducker: used with permission.
Copyright of this poem remains with the poet: please do not download or republish without permission.