The Last Hunt
One last time the old gun was cleaned,
It had just been sighted in.
The old hands treated it with T.L.C.
Like it was a cherished friend.
The blueing it was almost gone,
There were scratches on the stock.
Each one held a memory,
In his heart was tightly locked.
Many years had come and gone,
And this would be the last.
He gently wiped away a tear,
As he thought of hunts long past.
He’d passed on all his knowledge,
To his only son.
He had taught him how to hunt,
His legacy would live on.
One last time he would arise,
And walk out to his stand.
One last time the old gun,
Would be cradled in his hand.
To Father Time he’d paid the price
The body was old and lame.
And every time he took a step,
It was filled with pain.
They found him seated against a tree,
The old gun was in his hand.
Not far away lay the buck,
That had dared to cross his land.
There was a smile upon his face,
He’d found his peace at last.
The body that was racked with pain,
Was something of the past.
A younger hand picked up the gun,
With a gentle, loving touch.
Everything this man had taught him,
Had now come to mean so much.
He knew that he would pass it on,
As he looked at his own son.
He’d teach the things that he’d been taught,
The legacy would live on.
By Danny W.
