Updated: 6 days ago
Poem by Harry Slater
The night gives them shape,
Muscular and lithe and beyond
the crawling impartiality of sunlight.
Prowling lycanthropes, empowered
by the glowering eye of the moon.
Gloom-slunk and free,
Bellies filled with a newfound pride.
They wait for bright sun
to rebuild their false skin,
To return them to cowering shame
and the cold memories
of welcome animal breath.
Image by Mike Harman