• Hugh Loxdale

The Tiger

The Tiger,

Silent as a wraith,

Merges into the shadows

Of the jungle.

Is he there – or isn’t he?

Maybe it’s just the movement

Of a bird rustling the dry leaves…

Or perhaps the wind itself.

Who knows?…

Except the Peacock,

On a branch high up,

Who alone sees those wide paws

And sinuous body below the scrub;

Rust red and white,

The huge head with golden,

Piercing eyes


And a long swishing tail,

Periodically scaring the flies

That impudently try

And settle on its flanks.

The King – magnificent – rests now.

But soon, as the Sun rapidly sinks

below the western horizon

And the tree frogs begin to croak,

He will be on the prowl,

Looking for a young, tender

Morsel – or two –

On which to feed.

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