Hunter

You would not take me for a hunter
although I walk the green fields often;
and if my bow is strung with cobwebs now,
still I will not go hungry.

I am no stranger to the river
although I swim there all too seldom:
I know the boats that sail against the tide
and some of what awaits them.

You would not know me on the night side;
I never show my face in shadow,
but still the mirror on your sunlit wall
will not see my reflection.

I was before you were bespoken;
I will be when you are forgotten.
You think you know me, and you call my name
but hope you are mistaken.

You would not want me for your lover,
although you'll have no other after.
The wind that blows through me is eons old,
and freezes all it touches.