Voice for the Wolf-
Desolation, measured odds of
wind cries through ravines,
Spring floods gain impetus,
to the oratories of Eco banter
with Hedge funds.
Hunted fleece, since long-ago
when men got me put down, as
survival odds I estimated, now
rising heat and melted floes
leave no consent.
Going higher to the roof of abode
I contemplate centuries of
extinction, it runs back to now,
survive to fail is not my call,
fur traders have gone home to their Gods
yet, the axe persists.
Whooshing eagles fly up the mountain
almost wavering in their flight
like, weary commuters going home ,
their feathered wings carry
above the wrung-out sedition
of governments out of sync’
with natures choirs,
soaring sweetly.
Emerging writer. Poet at Over the Edge, Galway. Published on-line and Literary journals. Pendemic. Blue Nib, Lit.Mag. Journal. Honest Ulster etc.
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