The old wolf's howl
On the high plateau
Is an errie sound
In the shack below.
On a wind-torn night,
In huddled thrall,
We hark to the Atavistic call.
And we sit and ponder,
Silent though:
What does the mournful
Creature know?
Does he sit dreaming
Same as we
Of a far and dim antiquity?
(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)
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