Mary Wilce
The Fox On The Stairs
Behind the closed door, in the dark,
a child sits alone;
waiting for footsteps and the click of the doorlatch.
Beyond the door, the wooden staircase leads
to the safety of sleep.
Just past the turn in the stairs
the fox lives, thinking his fox thoughts.
He enters through the window, the window
where we watch the sunset,
the window we do not open.
There is nothing outside, but
a long fall to the scrub,
where the fox hides, waiting for darkness.
Now, it is dark. And he is there
on the stairs, breathing;
a breath that seeps under closed doors.
His amber eyes can bore through wood,
and he watches, watches.
His stillness is deathlike.
He makes no sound, has no name,
is invisible.
But I can sense his presence,
the fox on the stairs.
magazine list
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- Lamport Court
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- Paper, The
- Pen Pusher Magazine
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- Poetry London (1951)
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- Poetry Salzburg Review
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- Rialto, The
- Second Aeon
- Seventh Quarry, The
- Shearsman
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- Staple
- Strange Faeces
- Tabla Book of New Verse, The
- Thumbscrew
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- Ugly Tree, The
- Weyfarers
- Wolf, The
- Yellow Crane, The