Leonine is mine this time.
In the penultimate penumbra, I pen
A verse, so terse, but the first
Sight, of such might, that night;
A pride, of such pride, turns the tide
Of bok, and beak and even silverback
That experience fear, oh my dear, and tears
As they tear through the hair to the bare flesh
That is their right, on that night, so to bite
To the death, no more breath,
Just death.
Franschhoek, South Africa, February 2005
