The howl should have warned me
but first it did not register.
That day amazingly tranquil
not a cloud polluted the blue
The sky high above my head
that's when I should have fled.

Miles of moorland was the scene
freedom had a fresh meaning.
Sheep and ponies roamed freely
without pollution I carried on.
Then the illusion was shattered
when the animals scattered.

A violent blow struck my back
falling into the course grass.
Blood tainted the spot where I fell
it was mine I realised then the pain!
What had attacked me had gone
but it was vicious and strong.

I must have passed out now it was dark
yet I was still alive but hurt.
Cold very scared oozing and sore
it was hard to actually move a tall.
Again I heard that pitiful howl
or as I hoped only a lonely owl.

As darkness blanketed the moors
the moons glow lit up my path.
Now knowing werewolves existed
those gashes in my flesh so sore.
Unable to go on any further drained
somehow my sanity was maintained.

I awoke once more to warm daylight
how I walked was just a blur.
Arriving at a clump of trees by a stream
there I saw a young woman.
Surprised to see me she sat quietly there
with a hidden dread I could only stare.

Before I could speak she had gone away
on the ground my torn jacket lay.

I now dread the full moon each month!

The Foureyed Poet.