21 May 2011






                



Brett Weston












































               
                                The Thought Fox




                               I imagine this midnight moment's forest:
                               Something else is alive
                               Beside the clock's loneliness
                               And this blank page where my fingers move.

                               Through the window I see no star:
                               Something more near
                               Though deeper within darkness
                               Is entering the loneliness:

                               Cold, delicately as the dark snow
                               A fox's nose touches twig, leaf;
                               Two eyes serve a movement, that now
                               And again now, and now, and now

                               Sets neat prints into the snow
                               Between trees, and warily a lame
                               Shadow lags by stump and in hollow
                               Of a body that is bold to come

                               Across clearings, an eye,
                               A widening deepening greenness,
                               Brilliantly, concentratedly,
                               Coming about its own business

                               Till, with a sudden sharp hot stink of fox
                               It enters the dark hole of the head.
                               The window is starless still; the clock ticks,
                               The page is printed.






                               Ted Hughes (1930-1998)














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