Foxes
Last night I heard the foxes call my name.
Twisting in my sheets,
I heard it clearly as if it were you out there,
calling up to me from the garden.
I jumped out of bed, hurried to the window.
The night sky, though punctured with stars, obscured everything.
That tree where we saw the pair of jays
was just a blur
and the roses were charcoal drawings
not the riotous shrubs that filled the room with scent all Summer.
Two dark shadows slipped under the fence, out of sight.
You weren’t there of course,
but the thought of your voice
stayed with me all night.
This poem by Joan Osbaldeston was the inspiration for this drawing of nocturnal fox activity.
Those of us who have been kept awake by the eerie wailings of our vulpine neighbours will identify. Our response would be less literary and might include a bucket of cold water and some sweary shouting.
(Not really - we love you foxes and will do some fancy drawings instead)
