THE FOX

 THE FOX

Peter Woodgate

 

I saw him again today

Head down and slow of pace

Against the rain, this was no race,

It was as if

This wasn’t relished

Something he just had to do

But, in his mind, hellish.

 

He would stop now and then

Look round at me

What does he see?

I thought.

 

Whatever it was

I’m certain that

He remained uncaring

His beady eyes staring

At a being that would not understand

The world that he lived in.

He shook his head

As if to indicate

This was his thought

But no,

It was simply to clear his head of rain

Before climbing the fence, again,

Then, he was gone.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate