Song of the Wolf

‘Come to the mountains’

is the cry tumbling far and wide

over the lower pastures.

‘Come to the mountains’

echoes in the ears of sheep

grazing placidly in the sunlight

under their collie’s watchful gaze.

‘Come to the mountains,

the high pastures await you.

Come to the mountains,

the dog is not your friend.’

They look up in the distance

to purple, mysterious peaks

and wonder.

‘Come to the mountains

where fresh grass awaits,

exotic and lush,

waiting for you.

Come on your own,

let your own hunger lead you

to delights no one else can know

nor can share.

Fear not the dangers,

they are smaller than told

by watchdogs around the campfires:

steep paths to fall from,

mazes of high confusing passes,

sharp teeth in the darkness

of the canyons.

You will be fine,

you can look after yourself,

and all you get will be yours,

yours alone.

The shepherd will kill you someday,

take away everything you have,

there is no future in the herd.

Your protector is a liar,

and the collie is not your friend.’

The sheep wander one by one

up the mountain paths,

hungry, longing for promised sunshine,

and thick honey-tasting heather.

‘Come to the mountains’

is the song of the wolf,

living at the edge of the world,

calling the sheep to his dinner.

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