fox watcher on island road
of rumours of foxes signs of their coming in wet morning mud
the pawed at and scavenged for evening he pulls out dinner scraps
from the kitchen bin fills a tesco bag meat bare bones
and browning mince his red football cap his father’s toolbox torch
taped there to peer in the night at the foxes he knows are waiting
meat scattered around the park’s boundary beside bollards and hedges
joggers and late-shift workers don’t see him flinging bones
hiding in bushes searching for russet flashes birds peck at his fox-bait
mingled amongst the rotting meat of weeks past here in the shadows
between branches are beetles and moths strange striped arachnids
bide their hunger but his foxes never come just rumours that’s all
they tell him there are many stray dogs around the park hungry for meat
his torch shows thousands of eyes staring back I’m here till morning
he tells me lighting his cigarette passes my matches back those eyes
there are so many watching me all night offers me some meat from his bag.
