A creature fresh from fairy tales and fables
European as snow and firs,
it stands stock still,
pivots motionless on one paw,
rotates around a still point.
Beyond, the bay a lightless plain,
wind sifting through desolate pines.
Familiar silhouette it flashes away,
last suburban outlaw, to loot litter
from the brick houses in neat rows,
evergreens pointed and firm
and mowed around.
On mantelpieces images of Christmas;
snow and single stars and holly,
Brueghel‘s vision counterfeited weakly.
And outside a single fox,
slips from my lights
into the fast paddocks
that are dark and rich with rabbits
[from my collection: Lost Things and Other Poems]