The Werewolf

Howling and prowling through the forest it went,

creeping along to the little girl’s scent.

Huffing and puffing,

dripping red tongue.

Eyes like malachite,

heart like a drum.

It trotted and darted

through dark twisted trees,

licking its lips and sniffing the breeze.

And there in a clearing red riding hood stood.

‘That looks like  dinner,’ he thought,

but as he moved closer

she looked over her shoulder

and brought out a dagger

from the basket she’d brought.

With a twist and a slash she cut off his paw,

the bleeding wolf yelped and he ran.

Inside the cottage the little girl pondered

her Grandmother’s dismembered hand.

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