Author: William Jobling

Hardly a word between us,
just the wolf tracing our movements.
Day left slowly, becoming dusk
and I thought, here too we are bound
by the sky and the stars
and as we went I faltered,
Why this journey?
I did not ask for it, am no pilgrim,
rather one who aims, but dares not shoot
or clenches and then unclenches,
always threatened by the folly of fear
or the soft slide into weariness.