The Hood and the Wolf and the Night

Little Red Riding Hood is running through the wood in the dark, light from the orange moon is shining on her. Her hair’s the orange of the coals of a fire under her hood. What is she doing alone there, hurrying along? She’s wearing jewels too, great rocks of scarlet and blue, so not suited to her demeanour. But actually, she’s not that young a child and around her the red cloak is a little too small and everything is changing for her now, and she runs like a wild animal, and the night and the cold and the shining path in the moon is attuned to her.

At the house, the wolf is knitting as fast as can be done. He’s wearing the old woman’s spectacles and the lenses blur the wool in front of him but still he lets the needles fly, clackerty-clickerty. He’s very afraid of dropping a stitch and everything is slightly off. He thinks he’s purling when he really should be knitting, and he wonders how far he can get before Red Riding Hood comes knocking and then he’ll have to slope off because Grandma doesn’t like him in the house, and then it’ll be him out in the night and the moonlight and the howling, and where’s the empathy for him with all those wild things going on? He hardly dares to think and his knitting is only half done so he licks it with his long, animal tongue.