The Beltaine beast

The Beltane beast

Beware the Beltaine Beast, take heed!
For he will ride you hard to meet his needs.
Beware, beware, his power grows,
Your deepest desires he knows, he knows.

I am rutting stag,
I am hungry wolf,
I am rising owl.
I am deepest breath, and first howl.

I change my shape to suit the day,
Sometimes as hunter sometimes as prey.
Standing tall and crouched down low,
Horned one, sharp-tooth, moonlit glow.
Gliding high and on the ground,
nowhere, and yet all around.

That bitter sweet musk scent in the evening trees,
That quiet rustle and..tumble in fallen leaves,
The tendrils of smoke from ancient fires,
That howling as the moon grows higher.

Oh beware, beware the beast indeed
The beast! The beast! The flowing seed!
Beware the howling horned ones prowl
Beware the wolf, the stag the owl!

Grey wolf

The greying beast howls.
His cry splits the night.
Distant longing, like a scent
lingering of something that maybe,
just maybe, once was
more than just a fleet footed thought.

Hunter and prey would run together,
it was foretold.
Hunter and prey would dance,
Paw and feather as one.
But for how long?
And it is done, the dance, is done.

Grey fur shakes off a bitter chill,
no sun to warm these darkened days,
no nest, matted and soaked in constant rain,
no lair in which to find some rest.
The skies, empty, match his tone.
The pack pauses, calls to him,
He answers.
Turns to go, and just before
Looks up hoping he is not alone.