The Wolf Woods

The firs and fur are the same black
Against the snow line.
Three bushes detach their roots
And blind eyes spring into being,
Leaves folding into ears aquiver.
Teeth the colour of stripped wood under bark.

The orphans in the snow have half turned back
Do they see wolves or only bushy outlines
Spiked hair or pine needle shoots?
Something to fear, something they should be fleeing,
Or trees with murmuring leaves beside a frozen river?
Is that the wind, or the first howl, oh hark!

The choice will be made by the forming pack,
The choice is always theirs, not yours nor mine.
Nature it is that watches our disputes
Weighs up our tastiness within its seeing,
We do not even choose what makes us shiver.
We can not see the wolves within the dark.