Wolf Hoard was published in 2017. Endorsements from outside the group include:
This Border Poets anthology is further evidence of the wealth of poetic talent across the Welsh Borders. By this I don’t mean just skill, though that is certainly present in many guises. Two things particularly shine through and draw you in. One is the humanity of these poems, a generosity of spirit that’s all the more impressive for its engagement with some tough issues. The other is the quality of observation, of attention turned outwards to sometimes surprising corners of the world, but even when it’s inward, there are insights you’re glad are shared. The anthology has a weight of perceptive and emotional intelligence that frankly knocks spots off many a high-status literary magazine. It’s because the poets of this group have an eye for what matters. Hats off to them. Buy it.
‘Wolf Hoard’ is a journey ‘into the Wild West’, a fine and varied collection of borderland voices. There are some very fine poems in this collection and the poets' concerns are many and various; Keith Chandler with his ‘Chemo Nurse’ shows her ‘bursting late into this waiting room of politeness and fear’, Miriam Obrey’s visceral poem of sheep-shearing and Chris Kinsey’s
Days when I’d double back from school friends
to a secret orchard, vault onto someone else’s pony
and ride without tack like the Gypsies showed me –
But read together in one sitting, the reader is left with the faint howl of wolves and of things half-remembered; a wind of melancholy whistles through the book and ‘age like the edge of winter’. Lights fade, lamps are turned on against the darkness.
When I read Wolf Hoard I rather wished I lived in the Borders so I could join this talented group of poets. This is a collection bursting with wolves, herons, damsons, sheep-shearing, marshes, supermarkets and even a hanging. A wonderful variety of voices, many familiar names and a few I didn’t know but hope to meet again. So many memorable lines: ‘you do not want to die wearing pop socks’, ‘sing black crow feather white crow bone’, ‘running to the rhythms of her heart’.
A book to return to and to treasure.