Still

Loup cooks, something or other, while swaying slightly to the stereo's sound.  
She contemplates her late night tarot reading  
paid for with tea and biscuits.  
Social contact at a stand still.
She's still, fingertips over fiery hob allowing it to scold her hand, to the sound of Crying Wolf.
They're like echos of him in the quiet. The day continues,
and the, tick, clock, tick, still ticks.
Loup sets the wooden table and brings a steak to feast.  
She watches the ghost of him sit,
moving the yellow, unwashed table cloth
and breaking her yellow, ageing heart.  
Safe each evening in the arms of a breeze,
blowing on the steak and leaving it's, almost him, chill.
Still the wolves howl for their half human leader, who has long since passed,  
and a brother laying well done,  
but wasted meat, on silver edged plate
for a man, half wolf,
who hasn't been home for years...