Lean Wolf Winter
Gerry Stewart
Dusk shivers into focus;
the wary sheep,
the joint cracking ice-edged track,
leaves cornered in a maze of hedges.
With imagined caution
I round slow hills
stripped back to their ribs,
rolling with hunger.
Confront eyes peering
from the clear cut moon.
It stalks me with false promises,
panting frosted loyalty
into my palm.
Its throat rumbles
with a thundered growl
if I turn towards uncurling spring.
Shorn to bone and branches
I pace its prowling grounds
aware of the metal bite of snow
and its long claws holding me back.
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