Sometimes at night I hear the foxes cry
In language far from any I can speak,
Their calls are sharp, but full I think of joy
They haunt the shallows of my dreaming sleep.
And then if all is lost, and I wake and know
That sleep will elude me unless I rise
To sit and read while waiting for the glow
Of new day born from brightening skies.
And then I might see them light as any cat
Slip silent from wall to grass, brush through trees
Street-lamp shadows, for me to wonder at,
Before the grizzled fox-shaped spirit flees
From this grey world where I am yet a ghost
In my own garden, and a willing host.