Feral

Feral

In tangled hedgerows where the night grows old,
A whiskered shadow slips through bramble‑gate,
Its amber eyes reflect the moon’s cold gold,
A creature born of instinct, not of fate.

It pads the heath with silent, stealthy tread,
Fur ruffled by the wind’s relentless sigh,
Each breath a whisper of the wild unsaid,
Each heartbeat echoing the earth’s low cry.

No collar binds, no hand calls it to heel,
It hunts the hedgehog, stalks the rabbit’s run,
A ghost of freedom that the moonlight reveals,
A spirit fierce beneath the setting sun.

Yet in the dusk, when fog embraces the lane,
A tender purr may rise, half‑tamed, half‑wild—
A reminder that even feral vein
Can feel the pulse of a softer, fleeting child.