Helen McCleary
Sleeping with the Fox
Today I went back
up the riverbank.
Where beech trees bend
to touch the water.
A row of ancient watchers,
trailing fingers.
I reclaimed my words.
Took them
from under the stone,
in the hollow
of the fallen tree,
where the old ones whisper.
I feel so tired.
I could lie down,
gently, in the sandy mud,
where the heron feeds.
Let the tide slowly
cover me.
From the leafmould heart
of the tree,
I reclaim my pain.
Rest among the ferns
on the bank,
near the foxes den,
where he has been seen
sleeping,
curled in the sun.
Page(s) 7
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