The Wolf
A cruel Jack Frost blows icy floss
(in front of spring a' burstin')
While swirlin' sheaves of withered leaves,
near freezin' streams a' thirstin'.
A pack reviled is roamin' wild,
a wakin' wolf is howlin',
He scents a lean and lonesome scene,
while on the lurk and prowlin'.
With spangled bolts, white clouds revolt,
and starry skies start closin';
A wild goose soars beyond death's doors,
the naked moon sits posin';
Electric shafts (on fractured rafts)
sail night's cathedral caldrons -
A frenzied burst, the herd's dispersed
in random splayed and sprawled runs.
A she-wolf's eyes with famine cry,
the ancient wolf is bayin',
With weary back, he's lost the track,
his bandied legs betrayin'.
The brood's somewhere in shrouded lair
with she-wolves left to mind 'em -
The wolf, a' drag with empty swag,
is on his way to find 'em.
The pack rejoins with weary loins,
they sense their days are numbered.
In evening's night, he's feeling tight,
with aches and pains encumbered,
And standin' near, with shaggy ears
(one droopin' down, hung over) ,
He'll set the course with renewed force,
because he's still the rover.
Soon snow enshrines the timberlines
the bear's are sleepin' under,
And young, lupine, they'll stifle whines,
as gullies fill with thunder;
With echoes in the mouth o' death,
they bid farewell the lair
While panting puffs o' crystal breath
float, hanging in the air.
As dusk regains the snow-bound plains,
the sinkin' sun's a' hissin',
Their path is black (they don't look back) ,
the herd's long gone a' missin';
Neath northern lights, with barks and bites,
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poem by Terry O'Leary
Added by Poetry Lover
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