Mrs Reynard

fox 1
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

You get used to it,
the carnage,
the ruptured bodies
of the small and the not-so-small,
waiting to be steam-rolled
into the tarmac.
 

The children used to cry at the rabbits;
innards glistening, torn fur
spilling scarlet ribbons
onto adamantine grey,
but even tender hearts
become anaesthetised
to the horrors of the hedgerows.
 

Strange then
that the fox should jar me,
so serenely intact; no visible marks,
no metal tears or twisted entrails
as if he has lain down,
in his exquisite, toffee tailcoat,
exhausted from the coop
or chasing a moonlit hare,
 

cleverly positioning himself
in the middle of the lane,
to avoid having the breath
and the guts tyre-squashed
out of his body, as slick blacks
pass on either side.
 

I drive on, the day unfolds.
I work, eat, talk,
mostly at a distance;
life underwater.
 

I am not here.
 

I am there, always;
on the unforgiving surface,
lying cold in the road,
burrowing my desperate need
into his unbroken fur,
grifting
what little warmth is left
from his small, ruined body.
 
 

Advertisements

2 Comments

Filed under Free Verse, Poetry

2 responses to “Mrs Reynard

  1. That is vivid – desperately so. I like the image of the ‘chase of the moonlit hare’. Strange that it’s a dog fox – but the poem is called Mrs Reynard. Ah! the penny’s dropped. The poet is Mrs Reynard!

  2. Thank you for your kind comment. Yes, the poet is Mrs Reynard.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s