My name is Actaeon, part man, part stag,
caught in the moment of my own undoing -
about to be ripped open like a rag
yet still absurd, grotesque even. My ruin
was simply that I happened to be found
in the wrong place and at still wrong-er time:
Diana called my too-complaisant hounds
to arbitrate on what I'd thought no crime.
They sniff my foetid deer-smell, intense,
and paw the ground and slaver - then decide
to drag their keeper-quarry from his hide.
Their blood is up. I offer no defence.
Our gods are haughty. But - and this was known -
we should not trespass in dark woods, alone.
If you have any comments on this poem, Kevin Saving would
be pleased to hear them.