Wolves

I stand here in the cold black dawn
To listen for it coming on.
It whispers first in the crown of oaks.
As the gloom above glows grey, like smoke.

No more the young wolves' yipping yaps
Echo o'er their crowded tracks.
They have seasoned strong and lean
To glinting fangs among the trees.

They are there, all about me strewn
And sometimes sing their fathers' tune;
Low and steady 'cross the wood,
Slivered, weaving as I knew they would.

The smoky gloom does more reveal,
Pulling darkness like an orange peel;
Spilling grey in pools of leaves
And clumps of trees like harvest sheaves.

I stand encircled by the forest frieze
As it whispers softly, loving pleas.
And I am listening, shiv'ring, still.
It pours from glen to glen and hill to hill.

A faint grey fades to colour hews
Pinkened where the dawn breaks through.
The yellow, scalloped, curling cloth
Spreads upon the beds of moss.

I am mournful as the wolf
To feel the summer's fading pulse,
But spring is waiting in the wings
Like a young girl in a fling.

I'll stand here in the cold, black dawn
To listen for it coming on;
Kissing first the crown of oaks,
Then pouring fragrance on their toes.

COPYRIGHT DAVE MARTIN