Supple as a dream I can’t call back,
a vixen, in the hedgerow’s
matted black, is startled out
to skirt the dawn, and vanish with the dark –
her flame-bright tail extinguished
by the railings of the park. But first,
she bolts across an empty road
and keeps her pace with mine. I slow
to look at her across the gap. We run in time.
She turns her face. Her eyes flare
in the artificial light, and then
she finds a trapdoor in the night;
a corridor towards the sun that she
slinks down alone, and covers miles
she might mistake for home.
And what she sees she cannot tell,
but what she knows of distances,
and doesn’t say, I know as well.