Still Life

All Hallows' Eve, another vixen fresh off Hackney Marsh,
her voice loud, screeching, sensing rivals, enemies,
the loose bins out back. You have your head low
under the white blinds, watching her frozen
by the parked cars, a keen eye on the shadows.
She is healthy, plumped up, with a good coat.
Each night this week we've had the foxes bait us
from our dreams; they patrol the crisscrossed streets
and duck through hedges on the parks of the estates.
We saw three, mother and two cubs, peering at us
from a garage roof, nonplussed, inquisitive.

We try so much to live our lives beyond our lives
and what we see in front of us: new year, blue sky,
frost on the footpath, people dumbed by summer,
blowing at fists; the nights drawing in and the cold snap
...