Triplets, Too

The tiny wolf cubs paused and posed, Like puppies often do, As if they were something to boast And yet they had no clue... They never hunted for their food, Nor killed the creatures caught, So there was nought to change their mood Or taint their every thought... Their parents knew the tragic cost, Survival in the wild, The lives they found and lives then lost, How else to feed each child? The only doubts were where and when, No point in asking why, So parents hunted now and then, So cubs would live not die... But Man can't judge what he's done, too, With chicken, cow and lamb, Whatever's killed to make a stew, Or sliced up ham or spam... When time to snack, or dine, or feast, Survivors lack remorse, With scarce the pity for the beast That once was their first course... Denis Martindale December 2016. Poem based on the magnificent Stephen Gayford wildlife painting. Google-search phrases gayford prints and Stephen Gayford poetry and also for Heaven and Earth Designs...