The lion’s cub of tawny fur,
scratching yaps of future power,
———father watching, mane of gold,
———deafening roars of tales untold,
——————in lazy sunshine for the hour.
And then the hunt is on again,
grass now gently starts to swish.
———A doe in calm, a coming fight,
———bloody claws glare in the light.
——————Small teeth flash and do not miss.
But the white wolf waits alone,
for him the prey is yet to come,
———reflecting pools of the moon,
———darkened nights that leave too soon,
——————howling winds now fog the sun.
Then he croons his mournful tune,
a wandering she-wolf joining in,
———songs of yore that fall in trees,
———lost in a cold winter’s breeze,
——————of passion and forgotten sin.
A mother hawk now hears the song,
quiet sparkling in the dawn,
———splash with water’s shining spray,
———splash her talons fly away,
——————her wings are beating, striking on.
A craggy nest waits far for her,
the fleshy fish in steely clutch.
———Feathery fluff in rock and bone,
———her answer shrieks and echoes home.
——————Yellow eyes that burn to touch.
From far away, a whale sounds deep,
distant spray from his spout.
———Humble cliffs of stormy shale,
———bow down to the massive tail,
——————when from the waters he breaks out.
Tons of krill to pull the muscle,
feed the old man of the sea,
———wrinkled skin that stretches on,
———booming through a murky dawn,
——————swimming on through history.
Then all gone and in a wink!
Heavy clouds will rain no more.
———Stars that twinkle, galaxies,
———the cosmic goal of mysteries,
——————remaining on a distant shore.
For pages crinkle, pens run dry,
writers leave as does the sun.
———But unforgotten is the story,
———of the Earth in all her glory,
——————and again her day will come.
(c) Isvari Mohan, 2013