The Wolf Poem by Patrick William Kavanagh

He stands there now, a distant figure,
grey fur blending with the evening gloom.
I stand here by my cabin window, just as still as he,
and wonder if he sees me too, despite the darkness of the room.

The moon rises large and bright, and in the play of silver light
I see that he is not alone, and catch my breath in fright.
Shadows flicker silver grey then fade, make me even more afraid,
As I hear the steps of padded feet, I suck in air between my gritted teeth.

Footsteps soft as tardy autumn leaves that drift onto the pure white snow,
around, around the cabin, I can hear the footsteps go.
I strain to hear above the pounding of my heart.
A scratching at the door that makes it skip a beat, - I jump back with a start.

The rasping sound of panting fills my head, I'm wishing that I were already dead,
My fate seems much to cruel, to feel those tearing jaws as skin is shred.
Amber eyes surround the window, Glowing with a blaze that surely comes from hell,
Scratching on the cabin roof, the room is filled now with an acrid musty smell.

The moon looks in my window like a silver disc of spinning webs, and draws me near.
As I pound my head against the glass, I am no longer feeling any fear.
My claws are tearing at the jagged pieces of the frame that hold me back,
and, Jumping through, I hardly feel the shards against my furry back,
And I am free.

03/06/2013