I was working in the garden when I saw him again today
I turned and there he was
But so different from before –
Then he seemed well fed, proud, disdainful
Ignored me as he trotted purposefully towards his lair
With a thick pelt of rufous winter fur.
But now he was shockingly ragged, wasting, fur moulting, mangey
Thin hindquarters exposed – as if a vet had shaved his fur
for an operation – and the extraordinary sight
of a long tuft at the end of his tail,
like an advertisers’ hoarding paste- brush,
Where the fur had not yet fallen.
A startling parody of the fox’s brush.
He stood there in the middle of the lawn– uncertain but not afraid, for he is used to human company.
And anyway this was HIS suburban garden, not mine.
His ears were twitching back and forth, listening to the slightest sound –
He gazed at me, came closer – only a few feet away
I stared straight into his golden eyes
And he stared unblinking into mine.
What did I see? Hunger? Resignation? A request for food? Death approaching?
He did not look well.
What did he see in mine? Interest? Compassion? Helplessness?
Certainly not a threat, but did he understand what he saw?
When I didn’t give him any food – I had nothing to give him –
He looked and listened at the ground
As if sensing the vibrations of a worm tunnelling.
He wandered away to the other side of the garden – not furtive, just searching – hopefully – or desperately.
I turned back to my hoeing – and when I looked around, he had gone.
He had heard a neighbour where he knew there was food.
I hoped he would eat – and survive.
He WAS just surviving in this garden – his garden – and not yet a corpse at the side of a road.
The blue-tits still nested in the box by the kitchen,
above the bins, not deterred by the fox
who had no doubt scavenged usefully here many times before.
I wonder what happened to him?
C. Tim Taylor 2011