Most Read... Rebecca WattsThe Cult of the Noble Amateur
(PN Review 239)
John McAuliffeBill Manhire in Conversation with John McAuliffe
(PN Review 259)
Patricia CraigVal Warner: A Reminiscence
(PN Review 259)
Eavan BolandA Lyric Voice at Bay
(PN Review 121)
Vahni CapildeoOn Judging Prizes, & Reading More than Six Really Good Books
(PN Review 237)
Tim Parksin conversation with Natalia Ginzburg
(PN Review 49)
Next Issue Gwyneth Lewis ‘Spiderings’ Ian Thomson ‘Fires were started: Tallinn, 1944’ Adrian May ‘Traditionalism and Tradition’ Judith Herzberg ‘Poems’ translated by Margitt Helbert Horatio Morpurgo ‘What is a Book?’
Poems Articles Interviews Reports Reviews Contributors
Reader Survey
PN Review Substack

This poem is taken from PN Review 181, Volume 34 Number 5, May - June 2008.

Two Poems Michael McKimm

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
...


Searching, please wait... animated waiting image