From hunter to scavenger,
She wearily searches for food.
Cold and hungry, she has herself,
And two tiny cubs to feed.
Any little morsel will do.
Her hunting prowess is now reduced,
To searching through rubbish bags,
A fat wood pigeon would be nice.
She is tired, her body thin with mange,
Her once writhe frame and reddish brown fur
Is lank and unkempt.
She is a sorry sight.
But she will be back again tomorrow.
This is her territory now,
She is a survivor.
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Comments about this poem (Survivor by Elaine Battersby )
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