unless, that is, it fired the first shot!
What happened was, only after I had whistled, clapped my hands, and finally shouted at it
did the creature notice me; and then, after a garp of disbelief, it was off like the clappers, as above.
A FOX AT FROLIC
8th August 2020
That morning I had watched Vince, the terrier Tumble as tractor-mate,
Well-mowing the meadow with puissant red machine;
Not until afternoon, thus, another walking round –
By when the strengthened sun had so drowsed our air
That loudly hummed the bees, it seemed;
And the earlier fly-frantic swallows had slowed to well fed nonchalance.
I left the house, not slamming, and first circuitous
Sauntered the orchard for windfalls until every pocket,
Each assigned a variety,
Was snookered full of fruit.
Only once the still foglush grass had unhidden every apple
– And even one early gladfound damson –
Did I weave the dappleglade of windbreak willows…
And as I emerged, dull hatbrim downtilted ‘gainst the west,
There, mid-meadow, a fox was at frolic.
Russet-arched springing on four tip toes
To the beat of a whitetufted tail,
All around a spot in the pollendusty grass
Where its front paws went dabbeting and darting down –
Then a quickstop freeze, with earseyes so intent,
Before a solo dance slow across the meadow’s floor.
Under that teatime glitterball sun
It might have been a hunt-drunk cat,
For the steps were just the same:
A mouse, I was sure, scurried under the grass;
Thus, Reynard must have his game.
So intense at close focus was the fox’s play
While so bright his coat in the sun,
That this young hunter never noticed me –
And had I been a shepherd with a gun…
© Christopher Jessop 2020
