The Survivor

The cold white wolf cautiously crept, Feeling starvation grow... The crisp white snow crunched as he stepped, That's why he moved so slow... Conserving his energy, waiting, Sometimes slipping along... His dark eyes anticipating The things that could go wrong. A rock that blocked his hunting path, A hole that gave escape... Each one could be his epitaph, The final sour grape... His empty belly warned him still... The time for games had passed. For soon, in hours, he'd be ill... Perhaps to breathe his last. He gulped saliva, nothing more... He walked with heavy heart. The ache inside began to gnaw... And stabbed him like a dart. Yet on he searched, 'twixt life and death... 'Twixt this world and the next. Aware that every passing breath Caused him to be perplexed. What was this hell? What use was snow? Was this his time to die? To tell the truth, he didn't know. There seemed no reason why. His instincts led him to his prey... He heard a scratching sound. In seconds he was on his way, To find it underground. He chased it hard and off it ran Across the land ahead... And pretty soon, by Nature's plan... One lived and one was dead. The wily white wolf played the game That helped him to survive... To us, it's still a crying shame... Yet don't begrudge him life... The poem is based on the magnificent painting by Stephen Gayford called 'The Survivor'.