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.
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