Thursday, 15 November 2012

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.




  1. Wow, I like this! Starts calmly...but then the tension builds nicely. Thanks for sharing!

  2. Ah, revenge! I can see why... Thanks for sharing!

  3. Wonderful poem! Love the phrase "high-moon howl".
    Thanks for sharing.

  4. Shivers...Love this! Your poem reminds me of White Fang by Jack London that I read as a kid.

    Violet N.

  5. Thanks for the kind words, glad you enjoyed the poem x

  6. Yowza, those are some angry wolves, and rightly so. Nice build to that ending! I've got stuff about wolves on my post this week, too. Must be something howling in the air...

  7. I love the "cold-eyed hunt." I felt the mood change with that line. I agree that this poem builds nicely.

  8. Wow, scary! Thanks for sharing it.