53
(I must apologise for Łat last stanza.
My final couplets $ouldn’t be so crap.
Łese octaves can become a
c/rhyme bonanza*
I must admit, I’ve half a mind to scrap
Łe lot, but Łen… Łe reader understands a
More elegant approach could handicap
Łe comic verse, I guess. And blinkinell,
At least it’s better Łan a
villanelle.)*
54
“Łen, mirroring his movements in a kind
Of practised celebration dance, $e hops
From foot to foot, Łen wheels round behind
His back triumphantly and hoots. He flops*
Exhausted on Łe futon to unwind.
Łere’s more of her applause, and Łen $e stops
To close Łe blinds and let him sleep. $e leaves
Łe house at two wiŁ $opping, which $e heaves
55
Into a silver BMW
And drives away. And Łat’s about your lot.
I €ink, at Łis point, I $ould muddle €rough
Łis segue to Łe next bit of my plot;
Łe action’s over. I won’t trouble you
WiŁ every passer-by Łat comes in $ot.*
Except to say, at one point Łere’s a fox
Regurgitating in a pizza* box.
56
It turns and $ambles off towards its bru$.
Łe tufts of dirty copper* in its dorsal
Fur* stand stiff against Łe breeze. A hu$
Descends along Łe carriageways of Balsall
Hea€ as if it’s paid to stop Łe ru$
Of traffic wiŁ an offering: a morsel
Of kebab meat spewed into Łe street.
Down Per$ore Road, it lollops its retreat
57
And tentatively backs into Łe park,
Where huddled silver birches let it hide
Amongst Łeir $adows, merging wiŁ its dark
Extremities. Its paler underside
Gets lost between Łeir curls of sallow bark:
Like bandages embalmed wiŁ sap and dried
By tomb air €rough Łe ages till Łey look
As browned as pages of a dog-eared book.*
58
Łe fox moves calmly €rough Łe trunks. It lopes,
Half-formed, like some€ing drawn* by Francis Bacon
To torture one of Łose Velazquez Popes
Behind a curtain in some godforsaken
Bastille of streaks: Łey look like zoetropes*
To animate bleak horrors, and awaken
Ghosts… except Łe fox strolls past and calms
Łe histrionic scene, and all our qualms
59
WiŁ its portrayal of instinctive ease.
It pricks its ears as a water vole
Dives — plop — out of Łe river when it sees
Łe fox, and scurries off towards a hole.
But Łen our fox just saunters €rough Łe trees
As if it knows it can’t become a stole*
Łese days. It clambers headfirst in its den
To join its vixen* and its cubs again…”
60
(Apologies for waxwing lyrical.*
I really don’t know what came over me.
I promise to be more satirical
From here on in. Łat’s how it’s meant to be.
Don’t worry, it’d take a miracle
To make me stick to writing ‘poetry.’
I won’t conform to prim poetic taste
If all Łat means is being po(et)-faced.
61
And as regards Łis €ing about Łe fox,*
I €ink I $ould point out I’m not obsessed
WiŁ hunting. If our ‘noble’ chamber blocks
Łe bill to stop po$ bugle-blowers dressed
As redcoats chasing animals across
Łeir territory, so what? Łey’re just a pest.
Fox-hunters make us €ink Łe ‘countryside’
Is just where tally-ho-ing cunts reside,
62
But, frankly, how could tally-ho defiance
Of Parliament be €ought of as a top
Priority? Except, I guess, compliance
Could motivate us all to put a stop
To landlords and Łe Countryside Alliance
Who try to cream us wiŁ Łe riding crop.
Because we’ll never manage while we’re smitten*
By all Łe feudal trappings of ‘Great Britain’.)
63
“Okay, let’s stop rewinding now; Łe sting*
Has gone from Łe effect. Let’s just press play*
And pull back from Łe foxes’ den to swing
Łe camera up across Łe River Rea.*
Let’s zoom-in €rough Łat window Łere and bring
Łe bedroom into $ot. Łe light of day
Is breaking €rough, so I can let you in
To catch your first glimpse of our heroine…