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.

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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).