«The fox cubs are waiting» by Christian Ward

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The fox cubs, last seen months ago,
are posing in the Van Gogh light

at the foot of the garden. The clouds
have done a backstroke in extra quick

time to get out of sight. The waxwing,
blackbird and brambling are waiting

like rehearsing understudies
on a neighbouring lawn. Every holly berry

is plump for the background — the trees
are full, it seems, of rabbit kit hearts.

What else is left? The sky is a silenced tongue.
The cubs are burning torches of summer,

eager for you to sketch. They hesitate,
almost laugh — if foxes laugh —

remembering how you cluck while
brandishing the pen like a magician’s dove.

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