Edna K. (Katie) Gammill
The Huntsman blows the "Gone Away",
all reach a fever pitch.
It is the walls that speak to me
and pictures of her past.
Deaf ears hear the baying hounds and blessing of the hunt,
eyes seek the crimson tail of the feral fox.
At the height of autumn, the way to start the day
is tree trunks etched upon a sky
where pink hues lead the  way.
She rubs traitorous knees and turns her back on time,
ribbons spill from tarnished cups, her velvet hat
denies dust, a cinder track where colors flash
relieve her weary mind.
A captive of aging flesh, her mind fresh falling snow
is keen as wind and begs to ride, but has no place to go.
The morning curse is winter teeth that gnaw
on summer bones. Her couch and chair but crutches,
still she struggles on.
Her arms strengthened by the reins, legs weaker
with each stride, once clutched silken hunters
filled with pulsing power.
White hair and knowing eyes are wise beyond my years.
She vows she wouldn't change one day
and prays her time is near.
Give her hounds around her feet and wind

cutting her face, a "leg up",
her favorite mount will boldly lead the chase.
Give her a final wall to clear
and she will bravely greet
destiny where time stands still
and Huntsmen blow the "Gone Away".
'Tis there she longs to be.

Betty Whelen

Betty Whelen


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