The Grey

Wulf they called me; they called me long ago, in track and fathered field, muscled and thighed for the dash to kill and share the beating blood, the quarry’s stumbling heart yet I have kin too, and brave the arrow and shot you send; nay giddy lad your prey’s yourself, in your eye’s window, and the wind of fell and moor, bows to no man, no brother of the cub, or sceptered raking horny club; see tis the moment of wind, and bloody fur, that cuts the screaming cat and rabbit to fearful death, and warms the wormy hearth, the wulf-mother’s den; the spirit so nourished yet rushes on, into the black minds of men.