To value freedom above death,
a view that few of us possess.
Listen to the tail, of the Little Mountain Goat’s short trail.
Is one night, with
trotters sinking into soft emerald moss,
leaping though twisted roots
and bleating to the full formed moon,
better than ageing to mutton
at the end of Farmer’s rope?
Is the question that faced the Little Mountain Goat.
Rope taught, tied to stump, each step
deepening the path of her last rotation,
a muddy circle was her only creation.
Pointed trotters plodded on once grassy ground,
she dreamed of scaling rocks, as again she went around.
Jagged mountains stuck out past the field soaring high,
cutting the surface of the sky.
Steep but pebbled and full of grooves,
Goat couldn’t wait to make her move!
“Stay here my goat for you are safe,
the mountains are a deadly place.
There is a wolf whose teeth are sharp and white.
If you went now, you wouldn’t make the night!”
Goat’s eyes were black and wild,
The farmer thought this kid his only child
and locked her safe within his barn,
that way he thought she’d meet no harm.
But in amongst the hay and straw,
her want for freedom did not thaw.
Far above the wooden beams,
a window. Though it the moon did gleam.
It filled Goat’s white milky coat
with light and wonder, fuelling hope.
Springing forth, an acrobat, she leapt,
a spirit like hers cannot be kept.
Not turning back, she scrambled to the mountain’s base,
she knew this was her rightful place.
Up and up she rose. Through thorns, thicket and thistles
each granite rock to her, precious as crystal.
She soon was near a dense green wood,
until now she had been lost, she understood.
With dangling branches overhead, starlight glinting through
reflecting off her little horns, life was born anew.
She lay beneath a great oak tree, it’s bark speckled and warted,
she heard Farmer blow his horn, he knew his prison she had thwarted.
His trumpeting a desperate plea,
she baaaarrred, each note a tone of glea.
Resting her head upon a dew dropped fern,
she swore she never would return.
She felt it seep through all four knees,
forest air filling her with spirit from the trees.
Cold, strong and drenched with earthy resin,
she’d need strength for what would soon begin.
She saw a shadow lit by moon,
inching closer, it stank of doom.
“You needn’t creep, I know you’re there.”
“Then I guess you understand despair?”
Came a voice both sharp and firm,
within the forest retreated every worm,
leaves stood still, despite a raven’s flap,
beneath its feat, like bones, some twigs did crack.
Goat didn’t flinch, looking to the farm, seeing wisps of chimney smoke.
She took a breath, then smoothly spoke,
“I’ve been waiting here for you.
Don’t fret, it’s fine.I didn’t stew.”
“Prey, tell me, why, it is you wish to die?”
Now Wolf was in plain sight,
gums raw and red, its mouth pulled tight.
“You think of you I’m scared?”
Goat tossed her head,
“I brought two daggers, so I’m prepared.”
Each hair charged by hunger,
Wolf would humour Goat no longer.
Grey and gruesome, charged by night,
gliding through the air, a deadly kite.
Blood thundered in her ears like drums,
with two horns barely longer than my thumbs
Little Mountain Goat went forth,
she knocked the leaping Wolf off course.
It span around, eyes ablaze,
How’d Goat hit her? They only graze!
Again Wolf pounced, but Goat ducked under,
head angled left, Goat tore, Wolf had blundered.
Blood flew, dripped and splattered,
it was the fight to Goat that mattered!
From beneath the mountain warmed by yellow,
the sun rose, orb-like, from bellow.
Wolf’s teeth no longer white,
eyes blood-shot, she snarled with spite.
Fur spotted crimson, mouth ripped by horns,
a chunk in Wolf’s back Goat had torn.
All night, tooth and horn, nail and trotter,
but in the end Wolf had got her.
The spongey moss, now mottled red,
the kid is limp, it’s body dead.