THE TRAIL OF FOXES

The Trail of Foxes

 

Today, I tried to take the trail of foxes,

slyly following marks engraved

on powerful terrain, made over years

under the half-closed eyes

of dubious and fitful moons.

I felt the overwhelming need

to creep in surly, inauspicious places,

for, just like those who follow gypsies,

I am greedy to uncover,

things I’ve never been allowed to see.

But armed and vicious gate-keepers of briars

stabbed and stopped my curious advance,

preventing that one sudden, fleeting glimpse

of deeper insight into worlds

that only foxes know.

 

APRIL FROST

 

 

April Frost

This is not the time for frost,

When Winter’s hard-edged shadow

Should have passed beyond the sun

And, this side of the solstice,

Fragrant Spring should walk the land

While laughing blackbirds pierce the air

With pure and exuberant joy.

Instead, long spears of ice, with perfect aim,

Have stabbed them to the very soul.

In verges, daffodils hang down their heads

And, like me, long for life-affirming days

Of subtle sun and breeze-blown air

That will send me scurrying to the hills

With light and careless tread,

Happy as the towering lark

To be, at last, away from winter woes

And for the lifetime of a day

Feel again the freedom of the sky.

Last night, hares still danced in moonlight,

Cold-footed in the sparkling fields,

Unsure when, if ever, the true purpose

Of the tardy year would begin.

Now, shrill, complaining yellowhammers

Take up the disconcerting call

And the once-cheerful chaffinch

With only cold despondency creates

Its early morning song.

 

 

 

 

 

NIGHT WALKING

Night Walking

Night walking out in open country

Under the unseen ceiling

Of a barrel-vaulted sky.

Dark, without a moon or stars,

As if the gods of night had thrown

A blanket over evening and earth,

Sealing off their silent sleep

From the moans of mewling mortals.

It has created, on this one night,

A curious combination of the beatific and banal;

Something not anticipated, and yet

Curiously fulfilling latent expectations.

I cannot see my feet, but only hear my footsteps:

 

(One

two, three,

four, five, six).

 

As the infinity of darkness draws me onwards

Towards the epicentre of this unconscious world

I gasp at the enormity of where

The black-hole irresistibility enfolds me.

How many more steps till I’m absorbed?

 

(One

two, three,

four, five, six?)

 

Somewhere in the distance

I seem to hear a voice that asks me who I am

And what presumptions bring me here.

I confess, out loud, that I don’t know the answer.

In fact, I have my doubts if anyone

Knew this happened in the night

And, with brutal honesty, even if they did

I doubt if anyone would care.

Turning, I begin to ask myself

If I ever can return

From these realms of quaint half-dreams

To where once-welcome morning

Calls me once again.

A passing hunting owl says not.