There's a sickle of moon
above a lush forest floor
where scavengers pluck
flesh from the bones of
a wolf.
In my mind the wolf
hides inside me
waiting patiently the
impulsive lamb.
Dark heart I hear you
howling for possession
stars plummeting through
our veins.
A frenzy of birdsong
can not conceal the
longing that lingers
in these bones.
John Cowgill's Literature Site 