The cat is dead and the black rabbit
but the fox is still free
to leap through the kitchen window
at midnight clattering the pans

early one morning you found him
hidden behind the sofa
lifting his muzzle in a snarl
but sitting there in the first light
your hands hanging loose on your thighs
you questioned him in the language
you always use for an animal
backwards and forwards you went
in a friendly conversation
he copying every intonation
in his foxy whine till you told him
well I think it’s time you went

as if you had given him permission
he sidled out through the door
pausing and taking his time
looking back once and testing the air
with his red brush trailing behind him
he loped away through the orchard
making for his own wild bush
on the other side of the railway line.