the fallen fox
He was as if asleep,
the curb his pillow,
his wheeled assassin skilled,
beautiful still his coat of red,
without mark was he killed
I was thankful for that
as in the queue I sat.
As I stared at the body,
there in the gutter,
I was drawn to his stilled snout,
the eyes seemingly at peace
and his fangs bared in silent shout
white, not yet yellowed with age,
a final futile gesture of rage.
I wondered if he was going,
or coming back,
when crossing the road, risking all,
aware that death here waits,
on the black tarmac of urban sprawl
paying dearly for his diet of waste
by a chance to cross made in haste.
As the traffic moved on,
and the rain fell,
I looked again at poor fallen fox,
now becoming a gutter dam,
as against him lay a burger box,
paper, crisp packets, and cola can,
animal beauty and the ugliness of man.