I Run with the Fox

Excerpt

I Run With the Fox

Better to be proud and hunted
Than to ride with the Pink Coats.

Better than the smell of warm blood after a quick kill, Bitter and bright the scent of hidden fern.

Though the heart fail in the panting side
And the eye be clouded with straining
after the deep copse
Still is there thrill in flight —
Soft are oak leaves under the swift feet.

Sweet are the distant notes of the hunter's horn
And the hounds' baying,
Sweet to the trembling ears of the hidden
and hunted.

I run with the fox!

Memory Sharp

It has come to this… my darling…
With the years gone over,
With the truth acknowledged
You are not coming back.

It is entering a room
Where the curtains are drawn,
Where dust lies heavy
On the table top.
Sudden — your name — scrawled in the gloom —
And the mouth gone dry,
And the heart stopped!

Gift Shop Window

Apple Annie, ancient and weather-beaten
Her amazing garments huddled about her,
Bent almost double to peer in the window —
She stood on the one foot… and then on the other
And nodded her head like a great dark crow.
Her old lips moved in some mumbo-jumbo
But what she said was her own dark secret.

The wine-glasses winked in their pewter holders,
A bewildering array of costume jewellery
Of filigreed ivory and cornflower crystal
Was spread like the spoils of a pirate frigate
For Apple Annie's remote appraisal.
Some place, far back in the mind's recess
The hunger for Beauty stirred in sleep.

A little smile, like a secret fragment
Of dimly-remembered and lost delight
Moved, like the stir of a small frail fan
On a face that was wrinkled and dim with age.
With a hesitant gesture, desire engendered,
Her old hands fluttered against the pane
Twisted and gnarled… and pitifully empty…
Fluttered … and moved … and were still again!

Sire

My mother was a lady
With hair like silk
And eyes like gentians
And a skin like milk.

But my father loved laughter
And the flowing bowl —
And his eyes were dark mischief —
"Rest his soul!"

My mother often stopped me
From having fun
With the echo of her proper
"It isn't done!"

But I'd feel my father's hand
As he'd rough my hair
Saying "black… and rebellious.
We're a bold, bad pair!"'

And now I'm woman grown
With a son - ah me!
Who am I to tell him
What the "score" should be!

Communion

The rain falls down silverly
On the dark night.
Oh, but the air is soft to touch
And your face white.

This is for remembering,
For putting away in the mind's pocket
Like a shell - or a treasured stone, found
at the beach—
This touch - this kiss - this heart turning
toward heart —
This is for remembering
When you are beyond reach.

Words, at best, are like thistledown.
Let us be quiet, then.
Give me your hand!
You are my friend, and my love till the
world ends —
You understand!

Loud Silence

This is loud silence,
This bewildering space
Untenanted by you.
It has the ugly face
Of loneliness!

Hush… foolish heart …
You have been here before —
This is your blood
That rusts upon the door!

He Will Not Go Unremembered
(For Sir Charles G....