The ledge of ridge to river, dark and damp,
At edge on final stone, with algae slick,
In iron-studded boots, without a lamp,
The lonely man thus stands in terror thick.
And hears the howling wolves in hunter's writ—
Despair and death approach in hushing steps,
With rancid smell and sound of drooling drip,
From crimson, slicing smiles as malice swells.
A jump to death or dying rabid stand—
Between the maw or fangs, no choice to spare.
With ice in guts, his footing slips from land
And tumbles into murk, without a care.
With rushing wind in ears, like lover’s sigh,
With eyes to sky, a wish for moon to lie.
What chance will you take?
