When the wild wolves run

I've been reading about the wolves that used to be found all over the UK and Ireland. Their demise began with William the Conqueror's arrival.  I wonder, if they returned on certain nights, how they might feel about those who hunted them to extinction...

 

 

 

 

 

 



There’s silver in the mist when the wild wolves run,

though they leave no tracks in the mud. 

 

There’s a high-moon howl on a cold-eyed hunt

for the taste of human blood.

 

No flesh, no bone, will be safe this night – lock the windows,

bolt all your doors;

 

for the wild wolves run these hills once again,

with revenge in their fang-filled jaws.