Alison Lock

Wolf Woman

The verges are redolent with the aromas
of creatures: traces of urine, fur, scat.

Her bones bear down to the earth
as if she too will bleed into the soil.

She feels a flicker of the hunt, a chase,
but her eyes meet only bare ground.

She stifles a yowl as pressure gathers,
she feels a tremor, a clench, a cramp.

By day she follows the trail of shrew and mouse,
but at night she raises her cup to the moon

– her wolf genes insist. Even in the civilised world,
there is wilderness held at the end of a leash.

At last there is a slippery relief. But
sometimes, there is grief in that iron scent.