Wolf by Geraldine Aldridge

Wolf

I stroked a wolf.

following orders.

“Fist

not fingers.”

The wolf sniffed,

then licked my hand.

I heard a gasp.

I fell into those eyes,

 as gold as warm welsh gold

 from rugged mountains,

the colour of sunlit honey,

amber and rich.

I felt in that moment

more wolf more wolf

than ever I’ve felt human.

And something said, inside my head,

“I am Wolf.”

“Stroke his belly,

not his back,”

horsehair coarse,

tweed hacking-jacket hackles,

golden tufts woven with grey and sand.

Pinched face,

leaning, and lean,

an animal untameable.

I felt a longing, un-nameable,

a feeling I don’t get with my own kind,

to share his mind.