Old Dog-Fox In Bleak Midwinter

I was a game old dog-fox,

chest coat and brittle whiskers

white as pure memory

 

soft fronds and paws mute-hard

in the snow, lowliest of growls

tempered beside the holy frosted

   hedge.

 

I was a dope old dog fox, regular,

always into this and that

unafraid to fight, snap, snarl,

 

reclaim what is rightfully mine.

The church yard that I loved,

spied through milk-green eyes

   that sparkle still -

 

the cemetery glistening

where I used to secretly sit,

alert to voles and drunkards,

 

whatever passed me by,

the pious and forgotten, the prayerful

and the filthy amorous

 

who fondled in wolf-moon's blue shadow

slew-baited between death’s stones,

snow banked like an opulent hearth -

 

it cooled my hot fox blood.

Behind moss-gathered vaults I hid,

my snout sunk deep into the muck

   of it all,

 

Old Dog-Fox attuned

to late-night shouts and whispers,

who liked to sniff, meander, the scent

 

and chuck of a saucy passer-by.

I roused myself without so much

as a care  to seek my rewards,

 

the slurries of steaming red

half chewed fat - most unnatural aromas -  

my sleek sauntering tail

 

pommeled on high, jaw-grabbing

discarded take-aways

that flew nonchalantly

 

over the sacred chapel wall

for me, Old Dog-Fox, to pinch beneath

the rough clap of couples whose

   assignations

 

echoed beyond the crypt and whose

breathless neck-and-tease assaulted

the slumbering dead.

 

I was offered these gifts and I repaid

with acceptance, carried late night treats

between my teeth without shame

 

light-quick and fleet of foot

across unforgiving roads, sprightly

in deep set of night

 

astute red ghost for you

to remember - off, off

to a field of far-away silence

 

where dog cubs once barked,

panted for my return, and where now

pure old white vixen

   waits.