On the distant hillside I glimpse a silent shadow,
A shiver in the darkness beneath the misty moon glow.
Threadbare clothes and spirit clinging tight to fragile limbs;
The coursing blood within me growing icy cold and thin.
A child in my belly tries to feed from hollow bowl,
I pray to silent shadow from the depths of weary soul.
Collapsing on a snow bank for a place to rest my head,
knowing that my flesh is food as soon as I am dead.
Perhaps the silent shadow hears my broken shallow breath
as the stony, frigid pillow summons dreams of frozen death.
Yet in the misty morning, I feel warmth upon my back,
I turn and face a shadow wolf, so bold and brave and black.
He greets me with compassion, no sign of an attack.
I hear my clan approaching and the wolf flees toward the hill,
narrowly escaping men who’d surely shoot to kill.
The wolf reclaims his shadow self, silent, strong and still.
That wolf and I were bonded by my child who was born
in the misty silent shadows on that magic winter morn.
I named my baby Conchobhar, wolf lover I am told,
to honor that wolf shadow so brave and black and bold.
Now I call that shadow wolf who warms the winter’s cold,
as I fall into my final sleep for I am very old.
updated by @americymru: 11/24/19 06:16:51PM