SCENT

He rose and stretched till the claws in his pads

Stuck hornily out like long black gads,

He listened a while, and his nose went round

To catch the smell of the distant sound.

The windward smells came free from taint

They were rabbit, strongly, with lime-kiln, faint,

A wild-duck, likely, at Sars Holt Pond,

And sheep on the Sars Holt Down beyond.

The lee-ward smells were much less certain

For the Ghost Heath Hill was like a curtain,

Yet vague, from the lee-ward, now and then,

Came muffled sounds like the sound of men.

He moved to his right to a clearer space,

And all his soul came into his face,

Into his eyes and into his nose,

As over the hill a murmur rose.

His ears were cocked and his keen nose flaired,

He sneered with his lips till his teeth were bared,

He trotted right and lifted a pad

Trying to test what foes he had.