The fox in the ditch

Like last week, the Oracle gave me this poem from the first few words (forgot to try mustache again). A car hit the fox yesterday evening. There are so few cars use this lane it must have been a neighbour, going too fast because the only thing you’re likely to meet is a hare, a pheasant or a fox.

The fox in the ditch

Between light and dark, the blue hour
of dusk, when all dogs are wolves,
and fox is just a shadow,
perhaps a bowing branch.

He ran on silent feet,
dashed proud red into the lane,
lies now in the ditch, where
flies settle on his death mask.

Wind scatters gold poplar coins,
tree-tribute to the dead,
a keening in the thinning branches
where jays cry.

Wind, a ship with westering sails
full, a treasure aboard. Later,
we hear a vixen scream,
the night gives small comfort.