I Dreamed a Dream

I dreamed a dream in which a wolf,
a crouched grey stir
with seething eyes
all snarl lit,
and tongue, a crimson laze,
a flowing cardinal’s robe,
lolled out a flickered lick
against its jaw,
paw padded then
with muscles darkly coiled
like night in stealth,
right up to me, when I, in sleep,
had drifted to
an open mouth
of ragged forest edge.  

It had no words, and yet I understood
when it began to muzzle me,
its face a fur lined kiss
against my cheek,
that it had come to herald you
into my arms.

Or so I thought until
I smelled its breath.
And then I knew.
Instead of bringing  you to me
or me to you,
he, hungry, found you in the wood
and made of you his vulpine stew.
He’s death.