Poor Fox, you've decomposed so much
now, I took it upon myself to bury
you...in a deep hollow of the old sea wall...
I lifted boulders up from the waterside,
one at a time, I was sweating all over,
and the cuffs on my blue jacket got
covered in all kinds of crap,
While an old schooner sailed by,
without a mast, out of the corner of my eye,
tiny figures all whooping and cheering!
Two lovers rifled past, glaring at the dead
red fur, 'yes - once more orange than a sunrise! '
Yeah! the light had gone out - real bad weather
we'd had, couldn't ascertain what had happened?
And I wonder if it's the same fox I spied one
morning, while waiting for the early crew van,
Off course - I made some friendly dog banter,
and the blasted beautiful fox so lightly footed
comes right up, to find a startled me, hand empty!
I doubt I'll ever get as close again, until today,
but you are dead, and the best I can offer,
is to fumble, hoist you up by that great soft brush
of a tail...
Then I struggle getting you in the hole...
Your floppy legs wouldn't quite go,
And the side you'd been lying on was so rank,
maggot infested, rotten, my nostrils imploded!
But once I got you in, I was partly glad!
went down, washed my hands methodically, in a rock pool,
the sea water felt good, then I picked up my camera & bag,
and climbed back up, walked past again, with a funereal air,
muttered something holy, can't quite remember?
GRANT FRASER's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (Dead Fox by GRANT FRASER )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
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