Poetry | Animals
Urban Foxes, London.
Where they roam
There are foxes in the garden.
At night, the wheelie bins quake.
A margarine box lies licked clean
by a wet pink tongue.
Chicken scraps are rune bones
scattered on the back lawn.
There are foxes in the garden.
We hear screams at 2am
pulling apart plastic.
No longer after snails,
the MacDonald's fox is savvy.
There are foxes in the nettles,
foxes between the chestnuts,
foxes knocking flowerpots,
foxes on the garage roof;
foxes — hot as adolescents
on the night prowl,
baby foxes getting bolder
in the front petunias;
foxes drifting to the city,
old stink from the farms,
hobos of habitat
dossing in drain holes.
Yes, the louts are about -
gangs of auburn hair,
fox claws scratching at
the brain’s back door.
Chris Mooney-Singh’s most recent short film Looking for Mr Gelam was released in Jan 2021. See more of his work here
