Fox
by philip miller
The fox returned.
Slipping between, brushy
in the lane, slight as a
lean comma, eyes aglint
like wounds and liquid.
A stench, a grave scent,
and life: rough claws,
silent, revenant paws
and still, barely pausing
black in the street light.
Red under the still moon,
rose ribbon of movement.
I knew it was you, watching,
returning in baffled form.
Your bed not yet changed,
stains stitched into the quilt.
Now at night bins rattle
with no wind, the morning guilt
met with scat, scattered scraps,
an upturned heart. A yell.
Philip Miller is a writer based in Edinburgh. His poetry has been published online and in print and his novels include The Blue Horse (2015), All The Galaxies (2017) and The Goldenacre (2022).
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