The Last Scottish Wolf Poem by Alexander Downie

He walks over fallen timber to find the high point on the hill,
placing feet on dry bark and avoiding damp moss in the dark.
His breath spits misty splinters of ice in the cold night air,
and his taught chest raises with fierce, effort and expectation.

Through tangled branches the first faint stars catch his furtive gaze,
his fangs ember deftly as the falling sun clashes close to a fickle moon.
A top a crest with cavernous glens stands a solitary granite stone,
he fills his lungs, raises his head to a barren land and howls for eternity