The garish light blaze
is the garage across the road
about to close. Working late,
I’m half-lost in old thoughts,
memory's oddments and that –
that brief whisk of a tail
against my legs and I'm up to the door
and going in through the hall
to a back bedroom from where
I can see fox cubs playing possum
in an abandoned bath.
They do their best to look
photogenic, sport
dunned orange,
dunned orange,
hiding and seeking.
And we’d be in
And we’d be in
our kitchen watching.
It’s not snowed,
it's not a thought.
but, there,
across the grass
