They had been running after prey.
When had they become the hunted?
The wolves had seen happier days.
They think it's a game; time to play.
The growth of young wolves is stunted.
Stopped in every single way.
Aerial attacks sent to slay.
Their weapons are never blunted.
Wolves are less each and every day.
Their hot thermal colours betray
them. By traps they are confronted.
Diamond teeth; knives, swords, the San Mai.
Green crimes are fatally risque.
Out of guns, bullets are grunted.
Wolf coats are terribly cliche.
Lust is reflected in chrome trays.
Laughing where the wolves are shunted.
Wealth blinds them in a selfish haze.
For every single wolf, I pray.
*Author's Notes*
This is my first shot at a villanelle. I have to say I'm not a big fan of the rhyme scheme and the tentametre. It's all rather restrictive. Continuing my theme of poaching and the environment, this poem focuses around on wolves been hunted by humans. The San Mai is a type of combat knife. With thanks to my friends Louis and zayd for helping me with this.
Let me know your thoughts
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