Birthday

There is a tiger in the woods.
To the mist she clings
And trails like smoke
A wild thing,
Animal pure, bearing
Death's silent sting

She roars, like a beast in ascent
At the foodchain peak
Or a man on the brink
Of denying defeat.

She slinks in the soft shadows
Between candle-lights
And calls to the moon
In the vastness of nights
A gall-mingled cocktail
Of despair and delight
Alone and aloof
And hidden from sight.