Lupercalia
The woods hide many wolves.
You may think you are alone there,
as you stumble on a tree root
and look a little sheepish.
You cannot see, or hear, or smell them.
Your eyes are too dim,
your ears and nose too small.
They've always been there:
their roots run through the soil
in probing whiskers.
They emerge, death-cap quiet,
snuffling in dappled light,
shaking out grey fur,
flexing cramped paws.
And standing erect on hind legs,
they assume the shapes of trees:
front legs bend like branches,
rough hair rustles leafy.
They sniff the air.
Their ears twitch a little
at the sound of feet:
your stumble,
a child's light tread,
something tearing on the brambles.
By Siân Thomas
More about Siân
Siân Thomas was born in 1972 and lives in Sussex with her husband, cat and three chickens. Her work has been published in The Daily Telegraph and Agenda and she has been shortlisted for a number of competitions. Siân is currently studying for an M.A in Creative Writing and Authorship at the University of Sussex and is about to become Poet in Residence at Tunbridge Wells Museum and Art Gallery.