MINIONS OF THE MOON
Eerie cries waken me at 5 a.m. in dread. I pad to the window
And scan the street . . . scoured clean by moonlight . . . deserted . . .
Then from behind a car slinks, not the sleek cunning creature
Of fable, but a droop-headed, draggle-tailed, mangy old fox
Which crosses the street back and forth. Seeking what? Food?
A mate? The way home? That's long lost. Though it can't be
Fun to be an ageing scavenger under the bilious urban moon,
The rare morsels all snatched by the young. Baffled, hurt, but
Defiant the cry. It won't be anyone's pet. Autonomy and liberty
To the bitter end. Yes! However starved and disappointed,
Hoard wildness, exercise it . . . roam the lounge at night and cry:
'I am neither as others desire . . . nor what they think me to be.'
~~Michael Foley, Autumn Beguiles the Fatalist (Belfast, N. Ireland: Blackstaff Press)
Comments