The Last Wolf ©

Scottish glens lie silent,
your moonlit cry absent
erased by old highlanders,
your feral shadow
blue against the snow,
a chilled lamenting shadow.
You the perfect mother
nurtured her growing cubs,
fed her young with the young of others,
you, who sealed your own fate.
Your partner killed, children torn apart
adorned the black hood of death
to hide your fear.
As the wind and snow
of your final climb
filled your mouth and ears,
your muffled cries turned the hunt
into a hush of myth.

A tree grows where the last wolf fell.