Catching Ted Hughes' Fox

December night whispers upon the glass
to peer into the tick-tock glow
of hardwood and summer's auburn loss.

I, inside, draw its avarice in,
and catch a flick of copper in the snow.
A lost fox with nowhere to go and no kin.

A blood moon line-lights her back;
a landscape of ifs and hows and whys,
and I fly a crow's hunt somewhere.

My poet's fire crackles and her amber eyes
turn to meet my lonely stare.
I cast the runes to a page of sighs
and its friends there.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.