Dawn Bauling
The Back Page
The danger in allowing Ronnie and I a week away is that we pick up
our pens and write in abundance. Allow us a bookend of poems, this
month from our Somerset week and my tribute to our loved shadow.
Black Fox –Dawn Bauling
Our own black fox
hunts the downs
quicker than a spectre,
feet sharp, like arrow heads
finding a course.
He merries our path,
pink-bounced, ripped-sticked
unclipped to freedom.
He has backward eyes
laser-light, sloe-black
bullets that miss nothing,
steeling the ewes
nervous in audience
robbed of an easy sun.
They do not want his hurry,
the snap and round coarse
to sheep hippyness.
He will take his pleasure
in minutes, defying hours.
Our own black fox
hunts the downs
giving the day a path.
The dog always
allows the man.
Page(s) 56
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