The Wyvern

Why does the wizened old wyvern still wander,

A wintry grey whisper on windswept white wastes?

And why is a werewolf so wearily weeping

With worry at wearing the moon’s wilder tastes?

Why would the will o’ the wisp softly waiver,

And hide from the wayfarers walking the weeds?

And why won’t the wickedest witches still whisper

Of waxing, and waning, and warlocks’ weird needs.

We worked on our wards and found ways to be shielded

From wolves, wights and wyrms that once wizardry fielded:

A wall-building way down a waterless path.

We no longer wish for the warnings they wielded,

And lost with those worries so willingly yielded:

A world full of whimsy and wonder and wrath.