The Witch-Hare by Sarah Das Gupta
A white hare races through the forest,
pine trees whisper secret messages,
bramble thickets give willing refuge,
rooks on high, croak loud warnings.
The spirits side with their own.
Pursuers are fast closing in,
galloping horses sweat and strain.
Angry riders whip and urge their steeds,
a well-aimed arrow, lodges cruelly,
in the back of the ghostly hare.
Now over the open field,
he runs faster still, despite
the wound bleeding freely.
The horsemen make a sprint
to catch the fleeing devil
A lonely cottage, looms ahead,
the hare flies through the key hole.
The oak door bursts open,
an old crone sits in a rocking chair.
Her black cat glares, amber-eyed.
They cannot see from her back
a wound bleeds blood flows free.
The white hare has vanished.
Only red stains on the rush floor,
show where it may have been.