30

Her waxy feathers are glazed with red blood,
As she’s struck down- with sleek efficiency,
Limp and lifeless… limitless she had seemed!
From her throat is pulled a ghostly whisper.

Yet more glorious than;
The breathless, frantic squawks,
The slow suffocation in darkness,
The bright-eyed, damp, sickly terror of temporal Hell

Ah, the savage gleam in those black vacuums,
Wolf’s wicked snarling mouth not so grotesque,
As man, who wears an indifferent smile?
Its bones are groaning, its hunger dragging.

Its weakness runs deep; it dashes and leaps-
Squanders fragile life,
Alack, over this cub no-one weeps,
But Human, hark at the glum trees!


© Florence Challender 2011

27

The night blossoms as it claims back its fair lady,
O silent companion of mine...
She treads soft-clad, pawing cautiously the unfamiliar stage,
The pallor of the spotlight.

The whip of a bat's wing is her orchestra,
The strangled call of a bird frozen in flight,
Warns her prey to retreat into their hollows,
The moon turns away with grieved countenance.

Her eyes glow like a fire replenishing itself; the eyes of a huntress!
And her coat is as grey as the smoke that smothers,
Her body stops corpse-still,
But her tail so expressive, betrays her...

Yet when morn comes she is no longer betrothed to the darkness,
She stretches drowsily along the windowsill and rumbles contentedly,
Beguiling me with glass-green eyes; not of malice or envy,
But a rare kind of trust, a treasured love.


© Florence Challender 2010