Sonja Besford


my silence
salutes heavy secrets of the dead
who withdrew from the visible world
to roam over fine mountains and
frighten hawks into reshaping the clouds;
i sometimes wonder if,
while tip-toeing in a fog of foreign rules
i lost sight of my ancestors' humorous
games in their outwitting
the quicksand of human mediocrity
which whistle to a tune named survival;
i often stroll
around the roundabout of doubts and insecurities
carving my affections in unforgettable words
like a master-butcher who picks-up and
re-assembles parts and tastes of good loves
and say, tonight there will be another party
for my ancestors accustomed to forgiving me


The Current Issue

The current issue is packed with poems, reviews and interviews.

View Online copy »


Hear the Wolf poets read their work.

Click here >

The Wolf at the Poetry Library

The Wolf on - all of issues 6, 10 and 11