And another Christopher poem; the whole conversation is here.
As you hunted me
There would be snakes, but for the goats
who have eaten the grass, trudging
all dreaded-wool and ankle-bone
over the smooth, soft hill until
each blade is gnawed to the ground.
There would be snakes, if they had
anywhere left to hide, snakes to shelter me
from your pursuit, slivered arrows
pointed sharp at your heels, but instead
there is nobody here
but these silly, useless goats.
March 10, 2010