by Carol MacAllister
Moon calls me to life's dark repose
Of sullen skies and nighthawks shrills,
Cool breezes stroke like gentle hands,
My cloven hooves cut fertile lands.
A nightingale's sweet music drifts
To lonely shadows where I roam,
A face from other times appears,
Sweet whispers touch these wolfen ears.
What are these memories teasing past,
That stifle raptures of the chase,
Sweet, twitching flesh no longer fills
These aching voids and nagging ills.