The Smilodon

by Alzo David-West

snow falls 

     on meadows

          and tall hills 

a mammoth,

     ancient and slow, 

          treads the vale

upon 

     the winter isle,

          a smilodon

flakes strike

     the saber jaw—

          a leap in flight

in sanguine snows

     spread forms

          and bones

then the lurking

     eyes of ancient foes—

          men, wolves, bears

the tribes glare,

     and the hills mark 

          their howls and roars

the noises of war 

     settle, the enemies 

          desist and cease

gashed, 

     the smilodon breathes,

          frozen wind drifts

frost-clouds lower,

     dim, heavy, grey,

          and night falls

a sharp stone,

     a torn thigh,

          the smilodon sleeps

and it peers 

     into the shadows

          of still dreams

the winter turns,

     age glides to age

          and green

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END