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.
Copyright © Peter Lewis Holmes | Year Posted 2015
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