Loping across the night lawn

to pick at remains of the funeral lunch


red as the falling leaves

nose sharp as an arrowhead


the beautiful hunted fox

the fox that can kill for no reason.




 I still can’t believe it

 the widow says.


Death’s landslide

has smothered their future.


His sons manage the event

in their different ways –


one slips back instantly

into the sheath of student life


one auditions for his father’s part

repeats his sayings

with an over-exuberant laugh


and one alone at the window at night

watches the fox going about

its solitary work of survival


taking food into the wooded shadows

daring time and again

to come back into the light for more.



© Chris Banks

Published Ware Poets Competition Anthology 2008