As an infant what they saw reflected there was love,
That so beguiling aspect in their mother's eyes,
For what is there in a whelp, but the need for love?
And maybe it was love, of a sort, reflected there;
One couldn't be certain, for even when close up,
Her dark eyes maintained their cold inscrutability.
Though she might wear the mien of a caring mother,
In those deep-set eyes was something overweening.
One didn't come between her and a fresh carcass.
So, unsettled by the mysteriousness of her manner,
Her whelps were left to ponder the nature of love,
And whether any such thing existed under the sun.
And perhaps, it was then, they first chose to believe,
That love was what they saw in those distant eyes,
For if not, what could be the purpose of their being?
Though she might stand over a prize roebuck,
Smiling, satiated, over its engorged entrails,
Her teeth crimson from the kill, still they believed.
For the mirages on the littoral plain are desolate,
And there is little shelter from the summer sun.
In such a land one might turn anywhere for love.
Copyright 2018 Brent Hightower
*Image source unknown