Second Prize

THE VIXEN

She’ll come again this evening,

and again I’ll come to my room

and listen to the urgent witch,

the vixen, cast her throat song

on the black frost-hardened sky.

She is an ordinary urban bitch,

Ruddy,tiny-eyed,who lies hidden

in the present, sleeps on twigs

in next door’s garden, lives out of context

in the centre of our lives. Occasionally

we see her circle the perimeter, scarcely

disturbing the undergrowth. Vermin

or valuable her warm fiery fur, rich

as manure, gives an oily gleam

to the first light. She has the sunken

hunch of the hunted. Man – no longer

a formal predator – holds up the trophy

of a fox in binoculars, looks for

warning in the tawny tips of ears

and paws. The sharpened snout

seeks out closeness, chooses a vessel

to fill the air with a shriek of desire,

orgiastic, primitive. A rasp of sparks

from her harsh bark reverberates

around the empty playground,

dominates the space between us

with a single voice so strong

and alone it thrills my flesh

with longing to stand witness

and declare myself part of this.

  Mary Hastilow

  London.