The Lone Wolf

The biting wind blew southerly: relentless,

across rugged grey ridges. Defenceless,

against the Arctic front, a noble spectre rose.

Hawkeyed, with cold, discerning nose.

Proud paces loped upwards and on

towards the peak. The bold moon shone,

casting eerie shadows around the terrain.

The lupine form, like a noble king. No regal train

honoured him. He exuded all majesty,

yet, no court prevailed: a seeming travesty,

to this Lord of the Wild, erect, and silent.

Head, perched high, showing all dissent,

to the savage chill, assailing his form,

the Lone Wolf knew soundly this norm.

He ruled the land; where, all he surveyed.

The desolate wastes, where his realm portrayed.

grisly crags of wrath in a wretched plain.

He howled, long and soulful, wracked with pain.

A call from a mate – a faint but certain cry!

He sensed survival; his breed would ne’er die!