dead, belly dreaming of warm
offal cracked from the cage
of a small bird, the wet pop
of foraged berries.

Weakness bears its own weight
anchoring the feather-skeleton
of fox, slowing the easy stride
once light of heart as a man
with coins jingling in his
pockets.

Streetlight drags shadows long
and fox soft-shoes under moon
that shatters its fat penny
on the oily marsh, haunting
tree hollow and root. Fox

tours Efford’s derelict fort
prodding earthworks cut-rock
scarp, wind screaming through
the sally-port, squint in the uplift
of leaves, grit –

of leaves, grit – slipsslfox
slips into your every step,
blunt-pads nightly
outings, always the hunt –
for food,
a mate,
you.

dead. In another universe, the car
carried on down the unlit lane
and the bumper’s punch
felt like a glance. You
run and run and run and run.

In this life,
you fall to a patch of grass
where I find you as I
traipse the mowed field
into wood’s scribble,

marbled sky shouldering
its sombre weight back
to where field meets lane.

I spy you among buttercups
lying on grass as if basking.

That night
the dream of you
lingers.