Today we present the second and final part of “The Fourth Lunation” a poem by Anhedral, a music teacher and writer whose stories have appeared in ROAR, Werewolves Versus, and Wolves Dot Gay. You can find more of his work, including photos and explanatory notes, on his Furaffinity.

Last time, the poet’s werewolf partner took them out into the countryside to finally deliver the long-awaited transformative bite.

Read for you by Rob MacWolf — werewolf hitchhiker.

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https://thevoice.dog/episode/the-fourth-lunation-by-anhedral-part-2-of-2

You’re

listening

to

Poetry

Month

on

The

Voice

of Dog. This

is

Rob MacWolf

your

fellow

traveler,

and

Today

we

present

the

second

and

final

part

of “The

Fourth

Lunation”

a

poem

by

Anhedral,

a

music

teacher

and

writer

whose

stories

have

appeared

in

ROAR, Werewolves Versus, and Wolves Dot Gay. You can find more of

his

work,

including

photos

and

explanatory

notes,

on

his

Furaffinity.

Last

time,

the

poet’s

werewolf

partner

took

them

out into

the

countryside

to

finally

deliver

the

long-awaited

transformative

bite.

Please

enjoy


“The

Fourth

Lunation”,

a

poem

by

Anhedral

“The

wulf

will

come

when

he

will

come.”
That’s

what

she

had

said.
And

so,

because

I

love

my

mate
I

was

happy

then

to

wait
When

my

pelt

did

not

at

first

appear.

There

were

some

nights

then,

for

sure
Muscles

cramping,

flexing,

eager

for

the

hunt
My

teeth

a-teeter

on

some

brittle

edge
My

skin

alive

and

sweat-drenched,

trembling –

But

never

more

than

that.

And

so,

today
A

dozen

weeks

and

more

along
Still

unfinished,

stuck

in

this

pale

skin
Her

words

ring

faintly,

like

an

ancient

peal
Of

church

bells

mourning

some

lost

god
Far

off

downwind.

*****

I

chose

a

second

woodland

for

today
In

hopes,

perchance, to

best

recall

the

time
Most

wondrous

and

sylvan
When

my

mate's

fang

kissed

my

skin.

Instead I find a Burn

of

Sorrow,

Burn

of

Care
Gloom

Castle

glowering

above
That

maudlin

melancholy

that

Scotland

does

so

well.

It

is

Dollar

Glen.

*****

An

unholy

gash,

this

chasm

of

dark

green
There are

pockets

here

that

ne'er

have

seen
The

sun,

since

memory

began.
Such

strange,

unseemly

denizens
Outworldly,

old,

and

rum
Must

call

this

place

their

home!

What

low

and

little

daylight

dribbles

here
Blinks

quickly,

feebly,

and

is

gone.
And

yet,

with

Styxian

grim

humour, the

gorge is

water-splashed
A

ironic

nod

to

purity
As

if

this

year’s

doomed

could

ever

be

redeemed
Much

less

baptized.

The

wood

is

birdless,

listless,

soundless
Its scents are

those

of

countless

summers

gone
Its

sights,

their

fading

glories.

Rowan

fruits,

blood-red

beneath

my

boot,
My

breath,

alive,
An

arrogant

intruder,

fogs

the

deadness

of

the

air.
In

turn,

the

wood

breathes

out

a

steady

sigh
Of

cold

and

spent

fecundity.

Dried

husks

of

campion,

so

many

cinerary

urns
Or

perhaps

like

children’s

rattles,

though

long

bereft

of

every

charm.
Dehiscent

arcs

of

willowherb,

wildly

arching,

make

pale

balletic swirls
Protonic,

as

decay-trails

in

the

bubble

chamber –
Or an

old

man’s

thinning

pubes.

There

are

pallid,

glabrous

ashes,

skeletal,

draconic
Conifers,

as

well
As

if

touched

by

far

Tunguska
In

toppled

ranks

do

lie

now,

row

on

row.

Sad,

starving

hoverflies,

struck

drowsy
Suck

listlessly

from

asters

left

all

barren

by

the

frost.
Upon

the

beaten

earth
Moribund

dung-beetles,

hapless

on

their

backs,
Weakly

galvanic,

like

sickly

scarabs,

row

the

air
As

if

to

beg

the

god

of

all

the

carabids
For

some

swift

and

painless

end.

Now
In

this

satanic

diarchy

of

dissolution,

entropy
It

is

the

lower

plants

that

hold

full

sway.

An

apocalypse

of

fungi
A

copious

corruption,

now

confirmed
In

puffball, stinkhorn, fey agaric
Blewit and boletus riot

up

the dead trunks

in

their

saprophytic

bloom.
Rust-ridden,

tumour-fleck’d,

the

listless

leaves of

acers
Hang

forlornly in

their

queasy,

bile-bright

green.

A

fallen

oakleaf

lies

there
Filigreed,

more

holes

than

whole
Splashed,

perversely

like

a

childhood

daubing
With

bright

spores

in

its

blossoming

decay.
All

summer

long,

and

high

aloft
It

proudly

caught

and

held

the

airy

rays
Now

grounded

in

its

last

autumnal

gasp,

it

seems

to

“One

day

you'll

look

just

like

this,

too.”

*****


Out

of

the

woods

at

the

last,

I

sit
And

watch

the

bats

swarm

all

about

the

spate.
Selene

joins

me

too,
And

in

her

waxing

mood.

She

rolls

up

in

munificence.

Above

the

ghostly

Ochils
She's

a

milky,

gibbous

orb –

imperfect
Which

is

to

say

that

she,

like

me
Is

not

yet

fully

made.

It

is

the

fourth

lunation

since

the

bite.

It

is

a

myth,

I

know
This

moonish

tie-in to

the

fangs

and

fur.
Instead,

in

swelling

now

as

all

else

fades
She

seems,

above

all

else,

to

mock

me.

My

fingers

twitch.

There

is

warm

touch,

a

wet

nuzzle
A

young

Alsatian

bitch,

and

by

her

scent

just

two

weeks

spayed
With

the

naïve

and

sexless

art

of

every

ingénue
Has

approached,

to

seek

and

find

my

skin.
I

should not

be

surprised,

for

after

all
She’s

somewhat

wolf

herself.

I

pet

her

idly.

Her

human

hollers.

Tail a-wag,
She

flicks

an

ear,

and

blinks,
And

with

the lithe

carry

of

her

youth,
She

bounds

away.

The

dusk,

it

settles,

deepens
Selene is blazing

higher
Moondogs gleam

there

on

her

either

hand
They’re

lesser

beings,

naturally,

but

constant

even

so.

I

feel

my

nostrils

flare.
...by

her

scent,

just

two

weeks

spayed…
I

glance

down

then,

to

where

her

muzzle

touched
To

find,

wide-eyed

beneath

the

laughing

moon
Keratin

that

thickens,

quickens
Ushering

wolf

claws.

*****


This

was

the

second

and

final

part

of “The

Fourth Lunation” by

Anhedral, read for you by Rob MacWolf,

Werewolf

Hitchhiker.

Thank

you

for

listening

to

The

Voice

of

Dog.