By Robert Grant
Tie the wolf down and trim his tail,
splay his feet across the roads of time,
his potential for carnage retarded.
His back now broken,
his paws now clipped,
no need to sharpen on trees or piss-mark what’s his,
no prowling, no growling,
no howling in the night with hairy brethren,
for they too sit silently clipped.
With reddened snout pointing towards remembrance,
This once great hunter,
fear bringing enigma,
rests silently waiting for fresh faced chicks to hatch.
As with this new batch,
he feels exhilaration.
Not for the hunt,
for they are his squirts,
all clean nosed and ready for action.
Now confining himself to the role of teacher,
Self confidence preacher,
Mistake impeacher…for these pups will be different from he.
Yet…a smile develops,
cross formerly bloodied lips,
his tail, no matter how long this lasts
will continue to wag softly,
remaining ready to return to more harrowing times.
But for now, he will sit…clipped,
in ore of memory,
for his bitch has come,
to change the night.