Before the storm we fall in with lion –
six scions out from the pride.
Unmaned, cub-spotted, they slump amongst thorns,
smug in their big-cat skins.
They know we’re here.
So now we’re adrift on the storm’s swell:
coming like lambs to lay down with lions?
Caught in their lure we listen to their breathing;
the rise and fall of soft flanks.
Our breath marks time.
Waiting – till a drift of rainfall stirs them.
Watching – till they they rise to make their kill.
copyright 2015 Tish Farrell