In the first tunes of morning I had driven
through light summer fog, but
increasing thermals were hinting the
promise of a determined sun.
Here, between poppy, lupin and
ancient woodland, the road skews
awkwardly, but unbroken, down
to Newmillerdam.
At the top of the road, on the blind summit,
the car fallows left with the camber and,
at the apron of the curb, a fox,
unmarked and perfectly formed, is set out
as in sleep, untroubled, yet
wide-eyes fixed, curious, calm and bright.
The poppies, which scorch the ground
between stone and tarmac,
now heighten the moment when
I had looked into the eyes of the fox
and He had exchanged My empty heart
for His forgiveness.
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