Today we present the first of two parts 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.

Read for you by Rob MacWolf — werewolf hitchhiker.

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https://thevoice.dog/episode/the-fourth-lunation-by-anhedral-part-1-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

first

of

two

parts

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.

Please

enjoy


“The

Fourth

Lunation”,

a

poem

by

Anhedral

Today
Awake

at

five
A

raucous

throstle

at

the

pane,
A

wolf’s

tail

tickling

my

heel.

“Up,”

she

bids

me,

brightly

bonny. “Coffee,

then

the

road

by

six,
Before

the

traffic

stirs.”

Shuffling,

grumbling,

down

the

stairs
Groping

for

the

beans
I

watch

the

brew

drip

through

and

dream,

and

dream
That

maybe,

one

day,

some day,
My

mate,

she’ll

deign

at

last

to

bite

me.

*****

Today
Together
Top-down

under

solstice

sun,
We

take

the

Perthshire

road.
By

eight

the

heat

is

roiling,

and

the

whole

world

amplifies.
A

chaffinch

shouts

full

song

from

ashes

overhead.

As

we

doppler

past,
I

catch

his

dappled

flash

of

green

and

blue.

The

heady

reek

of

garlic-in-the-hedge.

Far

ahead,

unseen,
Some

driver's

killing

lungs

with

tar

and

nicotine.
My

mate's

muzzle

wrinkles;
All

Bredalbane shimmers in the fey midmorning

haze.

I

turn

the

dial.
A

scientist

picks

tunes,

and

muses

on

free will.
Five

decades,

yes,

my

stretch

of

road

thus

far
I

tap

the

fuel-gauge;

the

needle

dips

and

quivers –
Unreliable

narrator.

My

mate,

she

knows

just

how

to

lift

my

mood.
She

laughs,

a

furry

finger

points
A

hotel

billboard

blares ‘PETS

WELCOME /

LIVE

MUSIC’.
“Well,”

she

growls

then

to

me,

grinning. “A

discerning

audience

they

would

be,

for

sure.”

But

my

mate,

for

all

her

lupine

grace,

still

brings

the

Route’s end

is

known

to

her

and

her

alone.

*****

Moredun’s

a

little

fort

upon

a

hill,

girt

all

around

by

woodlands

wild.
My

mate –

she

brings

the

wild.

“So,

why

Moredun?”
She

quirks

a

fang,

and

slips

without

a

word
Along

our

sylvan

way.

The

woodland

reeks

and

teems, scent-sated
The

cinnamon

of

gorse,
Something

rotting,

fetid,

in

the

loam.
Breezeless

beech-boughs

arch

and

beckon,
The oaks drip sphagnum,

polypoid.

Suddenly

I’m

catching

everything,

and

it's

dizzying.
I

pick

out

digitalis,

forget-me-not,

happy

to

retain

botany,
And

see

bumblebees

make

obeisances

to

thyme.
Some

errant

brock

has

left

a

turd;

occluded,

now
By

shining,

shit-drunk

flies.

Brave

beetles

scuttle

on

thin

stalks,
Urgent,

iridescent,

in

thrall

to

some

uncan

prompting.
Lemon

hawkweeds

blaze,

a

thousand

perfect

suns
Ox-eyes

supernova

in

their

moment

of

fain

glory.

*****

My

mate

is

smiling,

waiting.
“Look,”

she

says

then,

pointing. “Did

you

forget

I

said,
We

never

really

left?”
A

wolf-trace,

perfect

and

pristine
Fresh

as

fondest

memory
Is

pressed

into

the

mud.

The

fort

itself

has

smooth,

sleek

shoulders
A

grassy

pap,

pregnant

with

life's

chances.
We

scramble

up,

she

swifter

on

strong

legs;
When

at

last

I breach

the

top,

her

muzzle’s

tilted

up.

Her

howl

envelops

me,

and

I

sense

none

else

can

hear
And

thus

cocooned,

I

feel

my

vision

swim.
All

Perthshire

blurs –

and

there,

instead,
Full

fourscore

furclad

wolves

and

men,

from

when

they

shared

the

world.

Sure

wolfish

arms

draw

round

me

from

behind.
“Behold,

your

witnesses,”

she

mouths,
“For

on

the

eve

of

Litha,

all

veils

thin.”

Her

tongue’s a

lover's

rasp

across

my

neck.
I

cant

it

back

to

meet

her

fang,
Blissfully

undone.



This

was

the

first

of

two

parts

of “The

Fourth

Lunation” by Anhedral, read for you by Rob MacWolf, Werewolf Hitchhiker.

Tune

in

next

time

for

the

conclusion,

both

of

the

bite,

and

of

the

poem.

As

always,

you

can

find

more

stories

and

poems

on

the

web at thevoice.dog, or find the show

wherever

you

get

your

podcasts.

Thank

you

for

listening to

Poetry

Month

on

The

Voice

of

Dog.