Fox

Sleepless I slip from bed to contemplate
a shadow taking form, and all at once

our anti-burglar lights illuminate.
An urban fox lopes past my garden shed,

and then, slowly, with splendid impudence,
ambles across my special flower bed

to stop and stare at me as if he owned
my bright-lit lawn, and dared me to dispute

his right to stay down there, enthroned
like one of Hughes's mystic animals.

Ted's fox - its sharp, hot stink - quickened his thought,
fertilised art like pagan rituals,

while I distrust his cult of violence,
for animals may never comprehend

the civil arts - kindness and tolerance,
good will on which the best of days depend.
...