From the vantage of her ochre mound,
in copse high above Mackey’s Farm,
Fox stared at the giant eye.
It stared back, alert, ready.

Sometimes narrow, a sly squint,
tonight it was round as the tawny owl’s,
the colour of spider-webs,
washed like a pebble.

As a cub, fluffy in the balmy night,
she often stopped in sibling tumbles –
reached for it with her infant paw –
pat … pat …

Now Fox sat, tall and still,
the fields silvered in cool stealth.
She held her breath while a fat moth
zigzagged the surface, a flutter of shadow.

© Caroline Fox Betts 2010


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