Archetype

The big bad wolf was standing by my bed.
Through slitted eyes, I saw him,
then shut my eyes, fast.
If I couldn’t see him, he wasn’t there.
I was three.

He was tall, had a long bushy tail
and sharp, dangerous teeth.

In the morning, I told my mother
I had seen him by my bed.
“That was your father,” she scoffed.
But I knew it was The Wolf.

I wanted a safe house,
one with no danger in the night,
no smiles with sharp, pointy, biting teeth,
a house that could not be blown down.

I turned left, and kept on turning:
past the oppressive, stifling marriage,
the heart-numbing traumatic relationship.
With my ducklings following me,
I found my little home at last,
stood at the door, arms crossed,
to defend its peace,
let no man in.

In time, a real wolf took his place beside me
as companion and protector.
He loved me well.
He led the way, his bushy tail
ahead of me down every forest trail,
his big paws lolloping before me
along miles of sandy beaches
stretching to forever.
Our joy was the song of the wild surf
crashing on the shore.

Our favourite time was
just before twilight,
when the sun spilled amber glow,
setting the trees aflame,
painting the mountainsides rosy pink -
eventide, when day was done,
and hearts turned homeward
towards that time of welcoming.