THE POET AND THE FOX

I sat at my dented teeth ridden table

searching for words through a window pane,

for images from a farce or fable

in crooked heavens high and garden drains.

In the soft mists of midday’s January fog

I heard a fox’s screeching tones of distress,

his orange coat sliding through the debris of smog

and dressed with a wispy whitened chest.

Through the bedroom window’s glass heart

he stood in full view singng for his love and kin,

like me he searched for all the lost parts

in passionate stance a nomad seeking.

Bounding through the foliage of an urban green

so brazen and brave to search this daylight,

fleeting the gardens and patios stealthily unseen

as if a glimmer of a ghost from a past night.

MJ DUGGAN.