In that white land beyond time
across the perfected snowfield
I see the faint trails
of poems I have not spoken
Wolves and wolfhounds
their tongues bloody in their muzzles
streak through the forest
pathways, making for the uplands
Their howling fills the rocky
places of my brain, their onslaught
across the sheer mountains
driving confusedly onwards
The mild mad dogs of poetry
in pursuit of the white hind
that thing of serene beauty –
your face, a quest without end
