Writing Under the Wolf Moon

Reflections, a new poem, and a writing invitation for you

This evening, I was wandering the Dark Peak, from Higger Tor to the abandoned millstones under Stanage Edge, up to the white triangulation point, then along the crest of Bamford Edge.

The wolf moon rose over the Kinder Plateau. It climbed higher, and the cold haloed it with the ghost of a moonbow.

I put on my heavy winter gloves, my second base layer, my down jacket, my hat, my neck gaiter, and by the wobbling light of my head torch, I hiked back down to Hathersage, to the warmth and light of the Scotsman’s Pack.
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I’ve always been interested in the Old Farmers’ Almanac, with its mixed origins. The wolf moon, strawberry moon and flower moon offer rich potential for poems. Why not try capturing what the wolf moon means to you?

For further inspiration, try Franny Choi’s masterpiece ‘Perihelion: A History of Touch.’ You could do worse than Ted Hughes’s ‘February.’

Wolf Moon

The new moon calls to you from over the Lune.

You clutched your whelps’ necks
between your teeth, ran to ground

under a claw-thin crescent. 
They routed your mate, clubbed your last cub, 
uprooted you from your den under Coniston. 

You drew that rabble of wolvers and wolfhounds
from Coniston Old Man to Ulpha and Ulverston,
lost the dogs in the Knott’s venomous yews. 

You lured them through Copper Valley,
wiled the hounds from Foxfield 
to Whelpshead Crag,
jinxed them across Mort Bank, 
masked your scent in the estuary’s channels.

You taunted them above Gait Barrows, 
denned below Trowbarrow,
limped, foam-flecked, up Hunting Hill
to Humphrey Head. At bay. 
The note of the mort. 

Still your shadow lopes, 
hollow-ribbed, over the hill.
You’ll return as the moon rounds and blooms.

Thank you to Consilience for publishing this in ‘Field Notes: Phases’ and especially to Laura Webb for generous and helpful edits.