painted with misunderstood grief.
but the wolf waits at the door,
keeps out the draught and the blade and the bad dreams
and in the morning when the young man sleeps
the king slips from his bed to the stairwell,
quiet as a wraith, and the wolf follows.
PACK
some loyalties run blood-deep
FOLLOW
a stone courtyard is unlike the woods
but the path is clear enough,
bed to chapel, sleep to prayer.
here no ivy tangles around the altar-stone,
no leaves crunch in the nave.
in his pale nightshirt the king is a ghost,
cold as the stones, but his candle
holds the force of a star. he kneels
– he must be cold –
and begins to whisper prayers.
they are unknowable,
layered in human-sense, no wolf-sense to them,
a soft chant of syllables.
I will stay by him anyway
I am at least warm in this cold place
I will keep him from freezing at his vigil
the candle burns low, guttering
with every exhalation. it flickers,
and as the flame goes out the priest emerges,
well-timed and hesitant.
I recognise him
