At the far rim of reality
Stands the wolf, unknown,
Archetype enchanting, ancient spirit,
King of his noble kind
Who pauses, glancing,
Father of the early forest,
Alien to the modern world-mind
That has been spawned and grown
Up from death,
From the killing of the magical ones,
Hence have arisen
All the dank drafts that dally through the restless cage
Of hell.
Yet the wolf remains
Beyond the brittle bell
That sounds this bleary
Age,
Watching,
More real than life or death,
Than the scurrying days that flit
On by like dry falling
Leaves
Blown
Across the desert floor
Bare and stark,
While the wolf stands still – eternal breath,
Blessed being,
Beyond the reach of the gray
Murmuring minions
That practice dark deceit.
Yet now their dreary
Presence wanes,
Soon, gone will they be,
There no more,
Caught up in the fleet
Fires of the ending day,
And still the wolf stands,
Aloof,
Poised to restore his lost domain,
Eternal god, under the blue eaves
Of the sky, on green woodlands,
He who ever was, and is, and is to be,
In the tall, sun-winged forest,
Ringed all around in rising mist
And radiant rains.
© Sharon St Joan, 2018
Photo: 119453623 © Olga Konstantinova / Dreamstime.com
Two beauties today, Sharon. Thanks. Prophetic, this one, or simply hopeful?
Thank you, Laura. No, I don’t see poems as hopeful, but they write themselves, so I don’t really know.
WOW! Stunningly beautiful and true.
Thank you, Cindy.