On the camping trip
On Sunday night
By the riverside
She beckons.

On the mountain hike
At Monday Dawn
By the woodland brush
She beckons.

Yet when father turns to meet her gaze
She hides behind the bark.
Her shadow lighter than the dark.
When father leaves, she beckons.

While in the tent, the son sleeps tight
father uses lanterns light
to seek the sound that touched the grass.
He fears of what might come to pass.
It isn't that he knows what's there,
because if he would, he'd be worse for wear.
It's simply that the woodland beasts,
would think their stock to be a feast,
and while he walks, and while she stalks, he leaves the tents,
She beckons.

Within the silver of her eyes, a motherly love does shine.
Within the furs upon her back a warmth does reside.
But as her fingers long and tender, caress those of the child.
It is not caring they express, but a greed, giddy and wild.

And so it was that when returned, the father was alone.
For the camping boy, motherlorn, took her hand, and went on home.